
Book. z:^ 



CoipghtN". 



150^ 



COPyRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



FANSHAWE 



AND OTHER PIECES 



BY 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 




BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

New York : 85 Fifth Avenue 

m)t Bitoet^iDe pre??, Cambribge 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two CoDies Received 

JUN 23 1904 

'^ Ooo.vrlffht Entry 
CLASS «- XXO. No. 
,..CpJ?Y. B . 






COPYRiG)aT^l6>6 p\"j/vMB^B^ dfedoOD AND CQ'ltftANY 

COPYRiGftT I5c4' bV H(3uGHT'6n, "MIFFLIN ANl>'cO. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 




CONTENTS. 

— ♦ 

Page 
Fanshawe 7 

Biographical Sketches: — 

Mrs. Hutchinson . . . . . . 167 

Sir William Phips 177 

Sir William Pepperell 185 

Thomas Green Fessenden . . . . 196 

Jonathan Cilley 215 




FAN SH AWE. 



FANSHAWE. 



t^B^«p5JB 



CHAPTER I. 

" Our court shall be a little Academe," — Shakespeare. 

N an ancient tliougli not very populous settle- 
ment in a retired corner of one of the New 
England States arise the walls of a seminary 
of learning, which, for the convenience of a name, shall 
be entitled " Harley College." This institution, though 
the number of its years is inconsiderable compared with 
the hoar antiquity of its European sisters, is not without 
some claims to reverence on the score of age; for an 
almost countless multitude of rivals, by many of which 
its reputation has been eclipsed, have sprung up since 
its foundation. At no time, indeed, during an existence 
of nearly a century, has it acquired a very extensive 
fame; and circumstances, which need not be particular- 
ized, have of late years involved it in a deeper obscurity. 
There are now few candidates for the degrees that the 
college is authorized to bestow. On two of its annual 
"Commencement Days," there has been a total defi- 
ciency of baccalaureates ; and the lawyers and divines, 
1* 



10 FANSHAWE. 

on whom doctorates in their respective professions are 
gratuitously inflicted, are not accustomed to consider the 
distinction as an honor. Yet the sons of this seminary 
have always maintained their full share of reputation, in 
whatever paths of life they trod. Few of them, perhaps, 
have been deep and finished scholars; but the college 
has supplied — what the emergencies of the country de- 
manded — a set of men more useful in its present state, 
and whose deficiency in theoretical knowledge has not 
been found to imply a want of practical abihty. 

The local situation of the college, so far secluded from 
the sight and sound of the busy world, is peculiarly 
favorable to the moral, if not to the literary habits of its 
students ; and this advantage probably caused the found- 
ers to overlook the inconveniences that were inseparably 
connected with it. The humble edifices rear themselves 
almost at the farthest extremity of a narrow vale, which, 
winding through a long extent of hill-country, is well- 
nigh as inaccessible, except at one point, as the Happy 
Valley of Abyssinia. A stream, that farther on becomes 
a considerable river, takes its rise at a short distance 
above the college, and affords, along its wood-fringed 
banks, many shady retreats, where even study is pleas- 
ant, and idleness delicious. The neighborhood of the 
institution is not quite a solitude, though the few habi- 
tations scarcely constitute a village. These consist prin- 
cipally of farm-houses, of rather an ancient date (for the 
settlement is much older than the college), and of a little 
inn, which even in that secluded spot does not fail of a 
moderate support. Other dwellings are scattered up and 
down the valley ; but the difficulties of the soil will long 



FANSHAWB. 11 

avert the evils of a too dense population. The character 
of the inhabitants does not seem — as there was, perhaps, 
room to anticipate — to be in any degree influenced by 
the atmosphere of Harley College. They are a set of 
rough and hardy yeomen, much inferior, as respects 
refinement, to the corresponding classes in most other 
parts of our country. This is the more remarkable, as 
there is scarcely a family in the vicinity that has not pro- 
vided, for at least one of its sons, the advantages of a 
" liberal education." 

Having thus described the present state of Harley 
College, we must proceed to speak of it as it existed 
about eighty years since, when its foundation was recent, 
and its prospects flattering. At the head of the institu- 
tion, at this period, was a learned and Orthodox divine, 
whose fame was in all the churches. He was the author 
of several works which evinced much erudition and depth 
of research ; and the pubHc, perhaps, thought the more 
highly of his abilities from a singularity in the purposes 
to which he applied them, that added much to the curi- 
osity of his labors, though little to their usefulness. 
But, however fanciful might be his private pursuits. Dr. 
Melmoth, it was universally allowed, was dihgent and 
successful in the arts of instruction. The young men of 
his charge prospered beneath his eye, and regarded him 
with an affection that was strengthened by the little 
foibles which occasionally excited their ridicule. The 
president was assisted in the discharge of his duties by 
two inferior officers, chosen from the alumni of the col- 
lege, who, while they imparted to others the knowledge 
they had already imbibed, pursued the study of divinity 



12 FANSHAWE. 

under the direction of their principal. Under such aus- 
pices the institution grew and flourished. Having at 
that time but two rivals in the country (neither of them 
within a considerable distance), it became the general 
resort of the youth of the Province in which it was sit- 
uated. Eor several years in succession, its students 
amounted to nearly fifty, — a number which, relatively 
to the circumstances of the country, was very consid- 
erable. 

From the exterior of the collegians, an accurate ob- 
server might pretty safely judge how long they had been 
inmates of those classic walls. The brown cheeks and 
the rustic dress of some would inform him that they had 
but recently left the plough to labor in a not less toil- 
some field; the grave look, and the intermingling of 
garments of a more classic cut, would distinguish those 
who had begun to acquire the polish of their new resi- 
dence ; and the air of superiority, the paler cheek, the 
less robust form, the spectacles of green, and the dress, 
in general of threadbare black, would designate the high- 
est class, who were understood to have acquired nearly 
all the science their Alma Mater could bestow, and to 
be on the point of assuming their stations in the world. 
There were, it is true, exceptions to this general descrip- 
tion. A few young men had found their way hither 
from the distant seaports; and these were the models 
of fashion to their rustic companions, over whom they 
asserted a superiority in exterior accoraphshments, which 
the fresh though unpoHshed intellect of the sons of the 
forest denied them in their literary competitions. A 
third class, differing widely from both the former, con- 



V 



FANSHAWE. 13 

sisted of a few young descendants of the aborigines, to 
whom an impracticable philanthropy was endeavoring to 
impart the benefits of civilization. 

If this institution did not offer all the advantages of 
elder and prouder seminaries, its deficiencies were com- 
pensated to its students by the inculcation of regular 
habits, and of a deep and awful sense of religion, which 
seldom deserted them in their course through life. The 
mild and gentle rule of Dr. Melmoth, like that of a 
father over his children, was more destructive to vice 
than a sterner sway ; and, though youth is never with- 
out its follies, they have seldom been more harmless than 
they were here. The students, indeed, ignorant of their 
own bliss, sometimes wished to hasten the time of their 
entrance on the business of life ; but they found, in after- 
years, that many of their happiest remembrances, many 
of the scenes which they would with least reluctance live 
over again, referred to the seat of their early studies. 
The exceptions to this remark were chiefly those whose 
vices had drawn down, even from that paternal govern- 
ment, a weighty retribution. 

Dr. Melmoth, at the time when he is to be introduced 
to the reader, had borne the matrimonial yoke (and in 
his case it was no light burden) nearly twenty years. 
The blessing of children, however, had been denied him, 
— a circumstance which he was accustomed to consider 
as one of the sorest trials that checkered his pathway ; 
for he was a man of a kind and affectionate heart, that 
was continually seeking objects to rest itself upon. He 
was inclined to believe, also, that a common offspring 
would have exerted a meliorating influence on the tem- 



14 FANSHAWE. 

per of Mrs. Melmoth, the character of whose domestic 
government often compelled him to call to mind such 
portions of the wisdom of antiquity as relate to the 
proper endurance of the shrewishness of woman. But 
domestic comforts, as well as comforts of every other 
kind, have their drawbacks ; and, so long as the balance 
is on the side of happiness, a wise man will not murmur. 
Such was the opinion of Dr. Melmoth ; and with a little 
aid from philosophy, and more from religion, he jour- 
neyed on contentedly through life. When the storm 
was loud by the parlor hearth, he had always a sure and 
quiet retreat in his study ; and there, in his deep though 
not always useful labors, he soon forgot whatever of dis- 
agreeable nature pertained to his situation. This small 
and dark apartment was the only portion of the house 
to which, since one firmly repelled invasion, Mrs. Mel- 
moth's omnipotence did not extend. Here (to reverse 
the words of Queen Elizabeth) there was " but one mas- 
ter, and no mistress " ; and that man has little right to 
complain who possesses so much as one corner in the 
world where he may be happy or miserable, as best suits 
him. In his study, then, the doctor was accustomed to 
spend most of the hours that were unoccupied by the 
duties of his station. The flight of time was here as 
swift as the wind, and noiseless as the snowflake ; and it 
was a sure proof of real happiness, that night often caaie 
upon the student before he knew it was midday. 

Dr. Melmoth was wearing towards age (having lived 
nearly sixty years), when he was called upon to assume 
a character to which he had as yet been a stranger. He 
had possessed in his youth a very dear friend, with whom 



FANSHAWE. 15 

his education had associated him, and who in his early 
manhood had been his chief intimate. Circumstances, 
however, had separated them for nearly thirty years, half 
of which had been spent by his friend, who was engaged 
in mercantile pursuits, in a foreign country. The doctor 
had, nevertheless, retained a warm interest in the welfare 
of his old associate, though the different nature of their 
thoughts and occupations had prevented them from cor- 
responding. After a silence of so long continuance, 
therefore, he was surprised by the receipt of a letter 
from his friend, containing a request of a most unex- 
pected nature. 

Mr. Langton had married rather late in life; and his 
wedded bliss had been but of short continuance. Cer- 
tain misfortunes in trade, when he was a Benedict of 
three years, standing, had deprived him of a large portion 
of his property, and compelled him, in order to save the 
remainder, to leave his own country for what he hoped 
would be but a brief residence in another. But, though 
he was successful in the immediate objects of his voyage, 
circumstances occurred to lengthen his stay far beyond 
the period which he had assigned to it. It was difficult 
so to arrange his extensive concerns that they could be 
safely trusted to the management of others ; and, when 
this was effected, there was another not less powerful 
obstacle to his return. His affairs, under his own in- 
spection, were so prosperous, and his gains so considera- 
ble, that, in the words of the old ballad, "He set his 
heart to gather gold " ; and to this absorbing passion he 
sacrificed his domestic happiness. The death of his wife, 
about four years after his departure, undoubtedly con- 



16 FAN SH AWE. 

tributed to give him a sort of dread of returning, which 
it required a strong effort to overcome. The welfare of 
his only child he knew would be little affected by this 
event ; for she was under the protection of his sister, of 
whose tenderness he was well assured. But, after a few 
more years, this sister, also, was taken away by death ; 
and then the father felt that duty imperatively called 
upon him to return. He realized, on a sudden, how 
much of life he had thrown away in the acquisition of 
what is only valuable as it contributes to the happiness 
of life, and how short a time was left him for life's true 
enjoyments. Still, however, his mercantile habits were 
too deeply seated to allow him to hazard his present 
prosperity by any hasty measures ; nor was Mr. Lang- 
ton, though capable of strong affections, naturally liable 
to manifest them violently. It was probable, therefore, 
that many months might yet elapse before he would 
again tread the shores of his native country. 

But the distant relative, in whose family, since the 
death of her aunt, Ellen Langton had remained, had 
been long at variance with her father, and had unwill- 
ingly assumed the office of her protector. Mr. Langton's 
request, therefore, to Dr. Melmoth, was, that his ancient 
friend (one of the few friends that time had left him) 
would be as a father to his daughter till he could himself 
relieve him of the charge. 

The doctor, after perusing the epistle of his friend, 
lost no time in laying it before Mrs. Melmoth, though 
this was, in truth, one of the very few occasions on 
which he had determined that his will should be absolute 
law. The lady was quick to perceive the firmness of his 



FANSHAWE. 17 

purpose, and would not (even had slie been particularly 
averse to the proposed measure) hazard her usual author- 
ity by a fruitless opposition. But, by long disuse, she 
had lost the power of consenting graciously to any wish 
of her husband's. 

"I see your heart is set upon this matter," she ob- 
served ; " and, in truth, I fear we cannot decently refuse 
Mr. Langton's request. I see little good of such a 
friend, doctor, who never lets one know he is alive, till 
he has a favor to ask." 

" Nay ; but I have received much good at his hand," 
replied Dr. Melmoth ; " and, if he asked more of me, it 
should be done with a willing heart. I remember in my 
youth, when my worldly goods were few and ill managed 
(I was a bachelor, then, dearest Sarah, with none to look 
after my household), how many times I have been be- 
holden to him. And see — in his letter he speaks of 
presents, of the produce of the country, which he has 
sent both to you and me." 

" If the girl were country -bred," continued the lady, 
"we might give her house-room, and no harm done. 
Nay, she might even be a help to me ; for Esther, our 
maid-servant, leaves us at the month's end. But I war- 
rant she knows as little of household matters as you do 
yourself, doctor." 

" My friend's sister was well grounded in the re f ami- 
liariy'' answered her husband ; " and doubtless she hath 
imparted somewhat of her skill to this damsel. Besides, 
the child is of tender years, and will profit much by your 
instruction and mine." 

''The cliild is eigliteen years of age, doctor," observed 

B 



18 FANSHAWE. 

Mrs. Melmoth, " and she has cause to be thankful that 
she will have better instruction than yours." 

This was a proposition that Dr. Melmoth did not 
choose to dispute ; though he perhaps thought that his 
long and successful experience in the education of the 
other sex might make bim an able coadjutor to his wife 
in the care of Ellen Langton. He determined to journey 
in person to the seaport where his young charge resided, 
leaving the concerns of Harley College to the direction 
of the two tutors. Mrs. Melmoth, who, indeed, antici- 
pated with pleasure the arrival of a new subject to her 
authority, threw no difficulties in the way of his inten- 
tion. To do her justice, her preparations for bis journey, 
and the minute instructions with which she favored him, 
were such as only a woman's true affection could have 
suggested. The traveller met with no incidents impor- 
tant to this tale ; and, after an absence of about a fort- 
night, he and Ellen Langton alighted from their steeds 
(for on horseback had the journey been performed) in 
safety at his own door. 

If pen could give an adequate idea of Ellen Langton's 
loveHness, it would achieve what pencil (the pencils, at 
least, of the colonial artists who attempted it) never 
could ; for, though the dark eyes might be painted, the 
pure and pleasant thoughts that peeped through them 
could only be seen and felt. But descriptions- of beauty 
are never satisfactory. It must, therefore, be left to the 
imagination of the reader to conceive of. something not 
more than mortal, nor, indeed, quite the perfection of 
mortality, but charming men the more, because they felt, 
that, lovely as she was, she was of like nature to them- 
selves. 



FANSHAWE. 19 

From the time that Ellen entered Dr. Melmoth's habi- 
tation, the sunny days seemed brighter, and the cloudy 
ones less gloomy, than he had ever before known them. 
He naturally dehghted in children; and Ellen, though 
her years approached to womanhood, had yet much of 
the gayety and simple happiness, because the innocence, 
of a child. She consequently became the very blessing 
of his life, — the rich recreation that he promised himself 
for hours of literary toil. On one occasion, indeed, he 
even made her his companion in the sacred retreat of his 
study, with the purpose of entering upon a course of in- 
struction in the learned languages. This measure, how- 
ever, he found inexpedient to repeat ; for Ellen, having 
discovered an old romance among his heavy folios, con- 
trived, by the charm of her sweet voice, to engage his 
attention therein till all more important concerns were 
forgotten. 

With Mrs. Mel moth, Ellen was not, of course, se 
great a favorite as with her husband ; for women cannot, 
so readily as men, bestow upon the offspring of other;? 
those affections that nature intended for their own ; and 
the doctor's extraordinary partiality was anything rather 
than a pledge of his wife's. But Ellen differed so far 
from the idea she had previously formed of her, as a 
daughter of one of the principal merchants, who were 
then, as now, like nobles in the land, that the «tofk 
of dislike which Mrs. Melmoth had provided was found 
to be totally inapplicable. The young stranger strove so 
hard, too (and undoubtedly it was a pleasant labor), to 
win lier love, that she was successful to a degree of 
which the lady herself was not, perhaps, aware. It was 



20 FANSHAWE. 

soon seen that lier education had not been neglected in 
those points which Mrs. Melmoth deemed most impor- 
tant. The nicer departments of cookery, after sufficient 
proof of her skill, were committed to her care ; and the 
doctor's table was now covered with delicacies, simple 
indeed, but as tempting on account of their intrinsic 
excellence as of the small white hands that made them. 
By such arts as these, — which in her were no arts, but 
the dictates of an affectionate disposition, — by making 
herself useful where it was possible, and agreeable on all 
occasions, Ellen gained the love of every one within the 
sphere of her influence. 

But the maiden's conquests were not confined to the 
members of Dr. Melmoth's family. She had numerous 
admirers among those whose situation compelled them 
to stand afar off, and gaze upon her loveliness, as if 
she were a star, whose brightness they saw, but whose 
warmth they could not feel. These were the young men 
of Harley College, whose chief opportunities of beholding 
Ellen were upon the Sabbaths, when she worshipped with 
them in the little chapel, which served the purposes of a 
church to all the families of the vicinity. There was, 
about this period (and the fact was undoubtedly attrib- 
utable to Ellen's influence), a general and very evident 
decline in the scholarship of the college, especially in 
regard to the severer studies. The intellectual powers 
of the young men seemed to be directed chiefly to the 
construction of Latin and Greek verse, many copies of 
which, with a characteristic and classic gallantry, were 
strewn in the path where Ellen Langton was accustomed 
to walk. Tliey, however, produced no perceptible effect; 



FANSHAWE. 21 

nor were the aspirations of another ambitious youth, who 
celebrated her perfections in Hebrew, attended with their 
merited success. 

But there was one young man, to whom circumstances, 
independent of his personal advantages, afforded a supe- 
rior opportunity of gaining Ellen's favor. He was nearly 
related to Dr. Melmoth, on which accouut he received his 
education at Harley College, rather than at one of the 
English universities, to the expenses of which his fortune 
would have been adequate. This connection entitled him 
to a frequent and familiar access to the domestic hearth 
of the dignitary, — an advantage of which, since Ellen 
Langton became a member of the family, he very con- 
stantly availed himself. 

Edward Walcott was certainly much superior, in most 
of the particulars of which a lady takes cognizance, to 
those of his fellow-students who had come under Ellen's 
notice. He was tall ; and the natural grace of his man- 
ners had been improved (an advantage which few of his 
associates could boast) by early intercourse with polished 
society. His features, also, were handsome, and prom- 
ised to be manly and dignified when they should cease to 
be youthful. His character as a scholar was more than 
respectable, though many youthful follies, sometimes, per- 
haps, approaching near to vices, were laid to his charge. 
But his occasional derelictions from discipline were not 
such as to create any very serious apprehensions respect- 
ing his future welfare ; nor were they greater than, per- 
haps, might be expected from a young man who possessed 
a considerable command of money, and who was, besides, 
the fine gentleman of the little community of which he 



22 FANSHAWE. 

was a member, — a character wliicli generally leads its 
possessor into follies that he would otherwise have 
avoided. 

With this youth, Ellen Langton became familiar, and 
even intimate ; for he was her only companion, of an age 
suited to her own, and the difference of sex did not occur 
to her as an objection. He was her constant companion 
on all necessary and allowable occasions, and drew upon 
himself, in consequence, the envy of the college. 




CHAPTER 11. 

'Why, all deliglits are vain, but that most vain. 
Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain : 
As painfully to pore upon a book 

To seek the light of truth, while truth, the while 
Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look." 

Shakespeake. 




N one of the afternoons which afforded to the 
students a relaxation from their usual labors, 
Ellen was attended by her cavalier in a little 
excursion over the rough bridle-roads that led from her 
new residence. She was an experienced equestrian, — a 
necessary accomplishment at that period, when vehicles 
of every kind were rare. It was now the latter end of 
spring ; but the season had hitlierto been backward, with 
only a few warm and pleasant days. The present after- 
noon, however, was a delicious minghng of spring and 
summer, forming in their union an atmosphere so mild 
and pure, that to breathe was almost a positive happiness. 
There was a little alternation of cloud across the brow of 
heaven, but only so much as to render the sunshine more 
delightful. 

The path of the young travellers lay sometimes among 
tall and thick standing trees, and sometimes over naked 



24 FANSHAWE. 

and desolate liills, whence man had taken the natural 
vegetation, and then left the soil to its barrenness. In- 
deed, there is little inducement to a cultivator to labor 
among the huge stones which there peep forth from the 
earth, seeming to form a continued ledge for several 
miles. A singular contrast to this unfavored tract of 
country is seen in the narrow but luxuriant, though 
sometimes swampy, strip of interval, on both sides of the 
stream, that, as has been noticed, flows down the valley. 
The light and buoyant spirits of Edward Walcott and 
Ellen rose higher as they rode on ; and their way was 
enlivened, wherever its roughness did not forbid, by their 
conversation and pleasant laughter. But at length Ellen 
drew her bridle, as they emerged from a thick portion of 
the forest, just at the foot of a steep hill. 

"We must have ridden far," she observed, — "farther 
than I thought. It will be near sunset before we can 
reach home." 

"There are still several hours of daylight," replied 
Edward Walcott; " and we will not turn back without 
ascending this hill. The prospect from the summit is 
beautiful, and will be particularly so now, in this rich 
sunlight. Come, Ellen, — one light touch of the whip, — 
your pony is as fresh as when we started." 

On reaching the summit of the hill, and looking back 
in the direction in which they had come, they could see 
the little stream, peeping forth many times to the day- , 
light, and then shrinking back into the shade. Farther 
on, it became broad and deep, though rendered incapable 
of navigation, in this part of its course, by the occasional 
interruption of rapids. 



FANSHAWE. 25 

" There are Lidden wonders of rock and precipice and 
cave, in that dark forest," said Edward, pointing to the 
space between them and the river. " If it were earlier 
in the day, I should love to lead you there. Shall we try 
the adventure now, Ellen ? " 

"0 no!" she replied. "Let us delay no longer. 1 
fear I must even now abide a rebuke from Mrs. Mel- 
moth, which I have surely deserved. But who is this, 
who rides on so slowly before us ? " 

She pointed to a horseman, whom they had not before 
observed. He was descending the hill ; but, as his steed 
seemed to have chosen his own pace, he made a very in- 
considerable progress. 

" 0, do you not know hira ? But it is scarcely pos- 
sible you should," exclaimed her companion. " We must 
do him the good office, Ellen, of stopping his progress, 
or he will find himself at the village, a dozen miles farther 
on, before he resumes his consciousness." 

" Has he then lost his senses ? " inquired Miss Langton. 

" Not so, Ellen, — if much learning has not made him 
mad," repUed Edward Walcott. " He is a deep scholar 
and a noble fellow ; but I fear we shall follow him to his 
grave erelong. Pr. Mel moth has sent him to ride in 
pursuit of his health. He will never overtake it, how- 
ever, at this pace." 

As he spoke, they had approached close to the subject 
of their conversation ; and Ellen had a moment's space 
for observation before he started from the abstraction in 
which he was plunged. The result of her scrutiny was 
favorable, yet very painful. 

The stranger could scarcely have attained his twentieth 

2 



26 FANSHAWE. 

year, and was possessed of a face and form sncli as Nature 
bestows on none but her favorites. There was a noble- 
ness on his high forehead, wliich time would have deep- 
ened into majesty ; and all his features were formed with 
a strength and boldness, of which the paleness, produced 
by study and confinement, could not deprive them. The 
expression of his countenance was not a melancholy one : 
on the contrary, it was proud and high, perhaps trium- 
phant, like one who was a ruler in a world of his own, 
and independent of the beings that surrounded him. But 
a blight, of which his thin pale cheek, and the brightness 
of his eye, were alike proofs, seemed to have come over 
him ere his maturity. 

The scholar's attention was now aroused by the hoof- 
tramps at his side; and, startiu'g, he fixed his eyes on 
Ellen, whose young and lovely countenance was full of 
the interest he had excited. A deep blush immediately 
suffused his cheek, proving how well the glow of health 
would have become it. There was nothing awkward, 
however, in his manner; and, soon recovering his self- 
possession, he bowed to her, and would have rode on. 

" Your ride is unusually long to-day, Fanshawe," ob- 
served Edward Walcott. " When may we look for your 
return ? " 

The young man again blushed, but answered, with a 
smile that had a beautiful effect upon his countenance, 
" I was not, at the moment, aware in which direction my 
horse's head was turned. I have to thank you for arrest- 
ing me in a journey which was likely to prove much longer 
than I intended." 

The party had now turned their horses, and were about 



FANSHAWE. 27 

to resume tlieir ride in a homeward direction ; but Ed- 
ward perceived that Fanshawe, having lost the excite- 
ment of intense thought, now looked weary and dispirited. 

" Here is a cottage close at hand/' he observed. " We 
have ridden far, and stand in need of refreshment. Ellen, 
shall we alight ? " 

Slie saw the benevolent motive of his proposal, and 
did not hesitate to comply with it. But, as they paused 
at the cottage door, she could not but observe, that its 
exterior promised few of the comforts which they re- 
quired. Time and neglect seemed to have conspired for 
its ruin ; and, but for a thin curl of smoke from its clay 
chimney, they could not have believed it to be inhabited. 
A considerable tract of land in the vicinity of the cottage 
had evidently been, at some former period, under culti- 
vation, but was now overrun by bushes and dwarf pines, 
among which many huge gray rocks, ineradicable by hu- 
man art, endeavored to conceal themselves. About half 
an acre of ground was occupied by the young blades of 
Indian-corn, at which a half-starved cow gazed wistfully 
over the mouldering log-fence. These were the only agri- 
cultural tokens. Edward Walcott, nevertheless, drew 
the latch of the cottage door, after knocking loudly but 
in vain. 

The apartment which was thus opened to their view 
was quite as wretched as its exterior had given them 
reason to anticipate. Poverty was there, with all its 
necessary and unnecessary concomitants. The intruders 
would have retired, had not the hope of affording relief 
detained them. 

The occupants of the small and squalid apartment 



28 FANSHAWE. 

were two women, both of them elderly, and, from the 
resemblance of their features, appearing to be sisters. 
The expression of their countenances, however, was very 
different. One, evidently the younger, was seated on 
the farther side of the large hearth, opposite to the door, 
at which the party stood. She had the sallow look of 
long and wasting illness ; and there was an unsteadiness 
of expression about her eyes, that immediately struck 
the observer. Yet her face was mild and gentle, therein 
contrasting widely with that of her companion. 

The other woman was bending over a small fire of 
decayed branches, the flame of which was very dispro- 
portionate to the smoke, scarcely producing heat suffi- 
cient for the preparation of a scanty portion of food. 
Her profile only was visible to the strangers, though, 
from a slight motion of her eye, they perceived that she 
was aware of their presence. Her features were pinched 
and spare, and wore a look of sullen discontent, for 
which the evident wretchedness of her situation afforded 
a sufficient reason. This female, notwithstanding her 
years, and the habitual fretfulness (that is more wearing 
than time), was apparently healthy and robust, with a 
dry, leathery complexion. A short space elapsed be- 
fore she thought proper to turn her face towards her 
visitors ; and she then regarded them with a lowering 
eye, without speaking, or rising from her chair. 

" We entered," Edward Walcott began to say, " in 
the hope — " But he paused, on perceiving that. the sick 
woman had risen from her seat, and with slow and tot- 
tering footsteps was drawing near to him. She took his 
hand in both her own ; and, though he shuddered at the 



FANSHAWE. 29 

touch of age and disease, he did not attempt to with- 
draw it. She then perused all his features with an ex- 
pression, at first of eager and hopeful anxiety, which 
faded by degrees into disappomtmeut. Then, turning 
from him, she gazed into Fanshawe's countenance with 
the like eagerness, but with the same result. Lastly, 
tottering back to her chair, she hid her face, and wept 
bitterly. The strangers, though they knew not the 
cause of her grief, were deeply affected ; and Ellen ap- 
proached the mourner with words of comfort, which, 
more from their tone than their meaning, produced a 
transient effect. 

" Do you bring news of him ? " she inquired, raising 
her head. "Will he return to me? Shall I see him 
before I die ? " Ellen knew not what to answer ; and, 
ere she could attempt it, the other female prevented 
her. 

"Sister Butler is wandering in her mind," she said, 
" and speaks of one she will never behold again. The 
sight of strangers disturbs her, and you see we have 
nothing here to offer you." 

The manner of the woman was ungracious; but her 
words were true. They saw that their presence could 
do nothing towards the alleviation of the misery they 
witnessed ; and they felt that mere curiosity would not 
authorize a longer intrusion. So soon, therefore, as 
they had relieved, according to their power, the poverty 
that seemed to be the least evil of this cottage, they 
emerged into the open aii. 

The breath of heaven felt sweet to them, and removed 
a part of the weight from their young hearts, which were 



30 FANSHAWE. 

saddened bj; the sight of so much wretchedness. Per- 
ceiving a pure and bright little fountain at a short dis- 
tance from the cottage, they approached it, and, using 
the bark of a birch-tree as a cup, partook of its cool 
waters. They then pursued their homeward ride with 
such diligence, that, just as the sun was setting, they 
came in sight of the humble wooden edifice which was 
dignified with the name of Harley College. A golden 
ray rested upon the spire of the little chapel, the bell of 
which sent its tinkling murmur down the valley to sum- 
mon the wanderers to evening prayers. 

Panshawe returned to his chamber that night, and 
lighted his lamp as he had been wont to do. The books 
were around him, which had hitherto been to him like 
those fabled volumes of Magic, from which the reader 
could not turn away his eye till death were the conse- 
quence of his studies. But there were unaccustomed 
thoughts in his bosom now; and to these, leaning his 
head on one of the unopened volumes, he resigned him- 
self. 

He called up in review the years, that, even at his 
early age, he had spent in solitary study, in conversation 
with the dead, while he had scorned to mingle with the 
living world, or to be actuated by any of its motives. 
He asked himself, to what purpose was all this destruc- 
tive labor, and where was the happiness of superior 
knowledge. He had climbed but a few steps of a ladder 
that reached to infinity : he had thrown away his life in 
discovering, that, after a thousand such lives, he should 
still know comparatively nothing. He even looked for- 
ward with dread — though once the thought had been 



FANSHAWE. 31 

dear to him — to tlie eternity of improvement that lay 
before him. It seemed now a weary way, without a 
resting-place and without a termination; and at that 
moment he would have preferred the dreamless sleep of 
the brutes that perish, to man's proudest attribute, — of 
immortality. 

Faushawe had hitherto deemed himself unconnected 
with the world, unconcerned in its feelings, and unin- 
fluenced by it in any of his pursuits. In this respect he 
probably deceived himself. If his inmost heart could 
have been laid open, there would have been discovered 
that dream of undying fame, which, dream as it is, is 
more powerful than a thousand realities. But, at any 
rate, he had seemed, to others and to himself, a solitary 
being, upon whom the hopes and fears of ordinary men 
were ineffectual. 

But now he felt the first thrilling of one of the many 
ties, that, so long as we breathe the common air, (and 
who shall say how much longer ?) unite us to our kind. 
The sound of a soft, sweet voice, the glance of a gentle 
eye, had wrought a change upon him ; and in his ardent 
mind a few hours had done the work of many. Almost 
in spite of himself, the new sensation was inexpressibly 
delightful. The recollection of his ruined health, of his 
habits (so much at variance with those of the world), — 
all the difficulties that reason suggested, were inadequate 
to check the exulting tide of hope and joy. 



CHAPTER III. 

'And let the aspiring youth beware of love, — 
Of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late 
Wlien on his heart the torrent softness pours ; 
Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame 
Dissolves in air away." Thomson. 




FEW mouths passed over the heads of Ellen 
Langton and her admirers, unproductive of 
events, that, separately, were of sufficient im- 
portance to be related. The summer was now drawing 
to a close ; and Dr. Melmoth had received information 
that his friend's arrangements were nearly completed, 
and that by the next home-bound ship he hoped to return 
to his native country. The arrival of that ship was daily 
expected. 

During the time that had elapsed since his fii'st meet- 
ing with Ellen, there had been a change, yet not a very 
remarkable one, in Fanshawe's habits. He was still the 
same solitary being, so far as regarded his own sex ; and 
lie still confined himself as sedulously to his chamber, 
except for one hour — the sunset hour — of everyday. 
At that period, unless prevented by the inclemency of 
the weather, he was accustomed to tread a path that 



FANSHAWE. 33 

wound along the banks of the stream. He had discov- 
ered that this was the most frequent scene of Ellen's 
walks; and this it was that drew him thither. 

Their intercourse was at first extremely slight, — a 
bow on the one side, a smile on the other, and a passing 
word from both ; and then the student hurried back to 
his solitude. But, in course of time, opportunities oc- 
curred for more extended conversation ; so that, at the 
period with which this chapter is concerned, Fanshawe 
was, almost as constantly as Edward Walcott himself, 
the companion of Ellen's walks. 

His passion had strengthened more than proportion- 
ably to the time that had elapsed since it was conceived ; 
but the first glow and excitement which attended it had 
now vanished. He had reasoned calmly with himself, 
and rendered evident to his own mind the almost utter 
hopelessness of success. He had also made his resolu- 
tion strong, that he would not even endeavor to win 
Ellen's love, the result of which, for a thousand reasons, 
could not be happiness. Firm in this determination, and 
confident of his power to adhere to it ; feeling, also, that 
time and absence could not cure his own passion, and 
having no desire for such a cure, — he saw no reason for 
breaking off the intercourse that was established between 
Ellen and himself. It was remarkable, that, notwith- 
standing the desperate nature of his love, that, or some- 
thing connected with it, seemed to have a beneficial effect 
upon his health. There was now a slight tinge of color 
in his cheek, and a less consuming brightness in his 
eye. Could it be that hope, unknown to himself, was 
yet alive in his breast ; that a sense of the possibil- 
2* 



34 FANSHAWE. 

ity of earthly happiness was redeeming him from the 
grave ? 

Had the character of Ellen Langton's mind been dif- 
ferent, there might, perhaps, have been danger to her 
from an intercourse of this nature with such a being as 
Tanshawe; for he was distinguished by many of those 
asperities around which a woman's affection will often 
chng. But she was formed to walk in the calm and 
quiet paths of life, and to pluck the flowers of happiness 
from the wayside where they grow. Singularity of char- 
acter, therefore, was not calculated to win her love. She 
undoubtedly felt an interest in the solitary student, and 
perceiving, with no great exercise of vanity, that her 
society drew him from the destructive intensity of his 
studies, she perhaps felt it a duty to exert her influence. 
But it did not occur to her that her influence had been 
sufficiently strong to change the whole current of his 
thoughts and feehngs. 

Ellen and her two lovers (for both, though perhaps 
not equally, deserved that epithet) had met, as usual, at 
the close of a sweet summer day, and were standing by 
the side of the stream, just where it swept into a deep 
pool. The current, undermining the bank, had formed 
a recess, which, according to Edward Walcott, afforded 
at that moment a hiding-place to a trout of noble size. 

"Now would I give the world,'* he exclaimed with 
great interest, " for a hook and line, a fish-spear, or any 
piscatorial instrument of death ! Look, Ellen, you can 
see the waving of his tail from beneath the bank ! " 

" If you had the means of taking him, I should save 
him from your cruelty, thus," said Ellen, dropping a 



FANSHAWE. 35 

pebble into the water, just over the fish. " There ! he 
has darted down the stream. How many pleasant caves 
and recesses there must be under these banks, where he 
may be happy ! May there not be happiness in the life 
of a fish?" she added, turning with a smile to Fan- 
shawe. 

" There may," he replied, " so long as he lives quietly 
in the caves and recesses of which you speak. Yes, there 
may be happiness, though such as few would envy ; but, 
then, the hook and line — " 

"Which, there is reason to apprehend, will shortly 
destroy the happiness of our friend the trout," inter- 
rupted Edward, pointing down the stream. "There is 
an angler on his way toward us, who will intercept 
him." 

" He seems to care little for the sport, to judge by the 
pace at which he walks," said Ellen. 

"But he sees, now, that we are observing him, and 
is willmg to prove that he knows something of the art," 
replied Edward Walcott. "I should think him well 
acquainted with the stream ; for, hastily as he walks, he 
has tried every pool and ripple where a fish usually hides. 
But that point will be decided when he reaches yonder 
old bare oak-tree." 

" And how is the old tree to decide the question ? " 
inquired Eanshawe. "It is a species of evidence of 
which I have never before heard." 

" The stream has worn a hollow under its roots," an- 
swered Edward, — "a most delicate retreat for a trout 
Now, a stranger would not discover the spot ; or, if he 
did, the probable result of a cast would be the loss of 



36 FANSHAWE. 

hook and line, — an accident that has occurred to me 
more than once. If, therefore, this angler takes a fish 
from thence, it follows that he knows the stream." 

They observed the fisher, accordingly, as he kept his 
way up the bank. He did not pause when he reached 
the old leafless oak, that formed with its roots an ob- 
struction very common in American streams ; but, throw- 
ing his line with involuntary skill as he passed, he not 
only escaped the various entanglements, but drew forth 
a fine large fish. 

"There, Ellen, he has captivated your protege, the 
trout, or, at least, one very like him in size," observed 
Edward. "It is singular," he added, gazing earnestly 
at the man. 

" Why is it singular ? " inquired Ellen Langton. 
"This person, perhaps, resides in the neighborhood, 
and may have fished often in the stream." 

"Do but look at him, Ellen, and judge whether his 
life can have been spent in this lonely valley," he re- 
plied. " The glow of many a hotter sun than ours has 
darkened his brow ; and his step and air have something 
foreign in them, like what we see in sailors who have 
lived more in other countries thau in their own. Is it 
not so, Ellen ? for your education in a seaport must have 
given you skill in these matters. But come, let us ap- 
proach nearer." 

They walked towards the angler, accordingly, who 
still remained under the oak, apparently engaged in ar- 
ranging his fishing-tackle. As the party drew nigh, he 
raised his head, and threw one quick, scrutinizing glance 
towards them, disclosing, on his part, a set of bold and 



FANS H AWE. 37 

rather coarse features, weather-beaten, but indicatmg the 
age of the owner to be not above thirty. In person he 
surpassed the middle size, was well set, and evidently 
strong and active. 

"Do you meet with much success, sir?" inquired 
Edward Walcott, when within a convenient distance 
for conversation. 

"I have taken but one fish," replied the angler, in 
an accent which his hearers could scarcely determine to 
be foreign, or the contrary. "I am a stranger to the 
stream, and have doubtless passed over many a likely 
place for sport." 

"You have an angler's eye, sir," rejoined Edward. 
"I observed that you made your casts as if you had 
often trod these banks, and I could scarcely have guided 
you better myself." 

" Yes, T have learned the art, and I love to practise 
it," replied the man. " But will not the young lady try 
her skill?" he continued, casting a bold eye on Ellen. 
"The fish will love to be drawn out by such white hands 
as those." 

Ellen shrank back, though almost imperceptibly, from 
the free bearing of the man. It seemed meant for cour- 
tesy ; but its effect was excessively disagreeable. Ed- 
ward Walcott, who perceived and coincided in EUen's 
feelings, replied to the stranger's proposal. 

" The young lady will not put the gallantry of the fish 
to the proof, sir," he said, " and she will therefore have 
no occasion for your own." 

" I shall take leave to hear my answer from the young 
lady's own mouth," answered the stranger, haughtily. 



38 FANSHAWE. 

"If you will step this way, Miss Langton" (here he 
interrupted himself), — '"if you will cast the line by 
yonder sunken log, I think you will meet with suc- 
cess." 

Thus saying, the angler offered his rod and line to 
Ellen. She at first drew back, then hesitated, but finally 
held out her hand to receive them. In thus complying 
with the stranger's request, she was actuated by a desire 
to keep the peace, which, as her notice of Edward Wal- 
cott's crimsoned cheek and flashing eye assured her, was 
considerably endangered. The angler led the way to 
the spot which he had pointed out, which, though not 
at such a distance from Ellen's companions but that 
words in a common tone could be distinguished, was 
out of the range of a lowered voice. 

Edward Walcott and the student remained by the 
oak : the former biting his lip with vexation ; the latter, 
whose abstraction always vanished where Ellen was con- 
cerned, regarding her and the stranger with fixed and 
silent attention. The young men could at first hear the 
words that the angler addressed to Ellen. They related 
to the mode of managing the rod ; and she made one or 
two casts under his direction. At length, however, as 
if to offer his assistance, the man advanced close to her 
side, and seemed to speak, but in so low a tone, that 
the sense of what he uttered was lost before it reached 
the oak. But its effect upon Ellen was immediate and 
very obvious. Her eyes flashed ; and an indignant blush 
rose high on her cheek, giving to her beauty a haughty 
brightness, of which the gentleness of her disposition in 
general deprived it. The next moment, however, she 



FANSHAWE. 39 

seemed to recollect herself, and, restoring the angling- 
rod to its owner, she tui'ned away calmly, and approached 
her companions, 

" The evening breeze grows chill ; and mine is a dress 
for a summer day," she observed. " Let us walk home- 
ward." 

"Miss Langton, is it the evening breeze alone that 
sends you homeward ? " inquired Edward. 

At this moment the angler, who had resumed, and 
seemed to be intent upon, his occupation, drew a fish 
from the pool, which he had pointed out to Ellen. 

" I told the young lady," he exclaimed, " that, if she 
would listen to me a moment longer, she would be 
repaid for her trouble; and here is the proof of my 
words." 

"Come, let us hasten towards home," cried Ellen, 
eagerly ; and she took Edward Walcott's arm, with a free- 
dom that, at another time, would have enchanted him. 
He at first seemed mchned to resist her wishes, but com- 
phed, after exchanging, unperceived by Ellen, a glance 
with the stranger, the meaning of which the latter ap- 
peared perfectly to understand. Eanshawe also attended 
her. Their walk towards Dr. Melmoth's dwelling was 
almost a silent one ; and the few words that passed be- 
tween them did not relate to the adventure which occu- 
pied the thoughts of each. On arriving at the house, 
Ellen's attendants took leave of her, and retired. 

Edward Walcott, eluding Fanshawe's observation with 
little difficulty, hastened back to the old oak-tree. Erom 
the intelligence with which the stranger had received his 
meaning glance, the young man had supposed that he 



40 FANSHAWE. 

would here await his return. But the banks of the 
stream, upward and downward, so far as his eye could 
reach, were solitary. He could see only his own image 
in the water, where it swept into a silent depth; and 
could hear only its ripple, where stones and sunken trees 
impeded its course. The object of his search might, in- 
deed, have found concealment among the tufts of alders, 
or in the forest that was near at hand ; but thither it was 
in vain to pursue him. The angler had apparently set 
Uttle store by the fruits of his assumed occupation ; for 
the last fish that he had taken lay, yet alive, on the bank, 
gasping for the element to which Edward was sufficiently 
compassionate to restore him. After watching him as he 
glided down the stream, making feeble efforts to resist 
its current, the youth turned away, and sauntered slowly 
towards the college. 

Ellen Langton, on her return from her walk, found 
Dr. Melmoth's little parlor unoccupied ; that gentleman 
being deeply engaged in his study, and his lady busied 
in her domestic affairs. The evening, notwithstanding 
Ellen's remark concerning the chillness of the breeze, 
was almost sultry ; and the windows of the apartment 
were thrown open. At one of these, which looked into 
the garden, she seated herself, listening, almost uncon- 
sciously, to the monotonous music of a thousand insects, 
varied occasionally by the voice of a whippoorwill, who, 
as the day departed, was just commencing his song. A 
dusky tint, as yet almost imperceptible, was beginning 
to settle on the surrounding objects, except where they 
were opposed to the purple and golden clouds, which 
the vanished sun had made the brief inheritors of a por- 



FANS H AWE. 41 

tiou of his brightness. lu these gorgeous vapors, Ellen's 
fancy, in the interval of other tlioughts, pictured a fairy- 
land, and longed for wings to visit it. 

But as the clouds lost their brilliancy, and assumed 
first a dull purple, and then a sullen gray tint, Ellen's 
thoughts recurred to the adventure of the angler, which 
her imagination was inclined to invest with an undue 
singularity. It was, however, sufficiently unaccountable 
that an entire stranger should venture to demand of her 
a private audience ; and she assigned, in turn, a thou- 
sand motives for such a request, none of which were in 
any degree satisfactory. Her most prevailing thought, 
though she could not justify it to her reason, inclined 
her to beheve that the angler was a messenger from her 
father. But wherefore he should deem it necessary to 
communicate any intelligence that he might possess only 
by means of a private interview, and without the knowl- 
edge of her friends, was a mystery she could not solve. 
In this view of the matter, however, she half regretted 
that her instinctive delicacy had impelled her so suddenly 
to break off their conference, admitting, in the secrecy 
of her own mind, that, if an opportunity were again to 
occur, it might not again be shunned. As if that un- 
uttered thought had power to conjure up its object, she 
now became aware of a form standing in the garden, at 
a short distance from the window where she sat. The 
dusk had depeened, during Ellen's abstraction, to such a 
degree, that the man s features were not perfectly distin- 
guishable ; but the maiden was not long m doubt of his 
identity, for he approached, and spoke in the same low 
tone in which he had addressed her when they stood by 
the stream. 



42 FANSHAWE. 

" Do yon still refuse my request, when its object is 

but your own good, and that of one who should be most 
dear to you ? " he asked. 

EUeu's first impulse had been to cry out for assist- 
ance ; her second was to fly : but, rejecting both these 
measures, she determined to remam, endeavoring to per- 
suade herself that she was safe. The quivering of her 
voice, however, when she attempted to reply, betrayed 
her apprehensions. 

" I cannot listen to such a request from a stranger," 
she said. " If you bring news from — from my father, 
why is it not told to Dr. Melmoth ? " 

" Because what I have to say is for your ear alone," 
was the reply ; " and if you would avoid misfortune now, 
and sorrow hereafter, you wiU not refuse to hear me." 

" And does it concern my father ? " asked Ellen, 
eagerly. 

" It does — most deeply," answered the stranger. 

She meditated a moment, and then replied, " I will not 
refuse, I will hear — but speak quickly." 

" We are in danger of interruption in this place, and 
that would be fatal to my errand," said the stranger. " I 
will await you in the garden." 

With these words, and giving her no opportunity for 
reply, he drew back ; and his form faded from her eyes. 
This precipitate retreat from argument was the most 
probable method that he could have adopted of gaining 
his end. He had awakened the strongest interest in 
Ellen's mind; and he calculated justly in supposing 
that she would consent to an interview upon his own 
terms. 



FANSHAWE. 43 

Dr. Melmoth had followed his own fancies in the 
mode of laying out his garden; and, in consequence, the 
plan that had undoubtedly existed in his mind was utterly 
incomprehensible to every one but himself. It was an 
intermixture of kitchen and flower garden, a labyrinth 
of winding paths, bordered by hedges, and impeded by 
shrubbery. Many of the original trees of the forest were 
still flourishing among the exotics which the doctor had 
transplanted thither. It was not without a sensation of 
fear, stronger than she had ever before experienced, that 
Ellen Langton found herself in this artificial wilderness, 
and in the presence of the mysterious stranger. The 
dusky light deepened the lines of his dark, strong fea- 
tures ; and Ellen fancied that his countenance wore a 
wilder and a fiercer look than when she had met him by 
the stream. He perceived her agitation, and addressed 
her in the softest tones of which his voice was capable. 

" Compose yourself," he said ; " you have nothing to 
fear from me. But we are in open view from the house, 
where we now stand ; and discovery would not be with- 
out danger to both of us." 

" No eye can see us here," said Ellen, trembhng at the 
truth of her own observation, when they stood beneath a 
gnarled, low-branched pine, which Dr. Melmoth's ideas of 
beauty had caused him to retain in his garden. " Speak 
quickly ; for I dare follow you no farther." 

The spot was indeed sufficiently solitary ; and the stran- 
ger delayed no longer to explain his errand. 

" Your father," he began, — " do you not love him ? 
Would you do aught for his welfare ? " 

"Everything that a father could ask I would do," 



44 FANSHAWE. 

exclaimed Ellen, eagerly. " Where is my fatlier ? and 
when shall I meet him ? " 

"It must depend upon yourself, whether you shall 
meet him in a few days or never." 

" Never ! " repeated Ellen. *' Is he ill ? Is he in dan- 
ger ? " 

" He is in danger," rephed the man, " but not from 
illness. Your father is a ruined man. Of all his friends, 
but one remains to him. That friend has travelled far to 
prove if his daughter has a daughter's affection." 

" And what is to be the proof ? " asked Ellen, with 
more calmness than the stranger had anticipated ; for she 
possessed a large fund of plain sense, which revolted 
against the mystery of these proceedings. Such a course, 
too, seemed discordant with her father's character, whose 
strong mind and almost cold heart were little likely to 
demand, or even to pardon, the romance of affection. 

"This letter will explain," was the reply to Ellen's 
question. "You will see that it is in your father's 
hand ; and that may gam your confidence, though I am 
doubted." 

She received the letter ; and many of her suspicions of 
the stranger's truth were vanquished by the apparent 
openness of his manner. He was preparing to speak fur- 
ther, but paused, for a footstep was now heard, approach- 
ing from the lower part of the garden. From their situa- 
tion, — at some distance from the path, and in the shade 
of the tree, — they had a fair chance of eluding discovery 
from any unsuspecting passenger ; and, when Ellen saw 
that the intruder was Eanshawe, she hoped that his usual 
abstraction would assist their concealment. 



FANSHAWE. 45 

But, as the student advanced along the path, his air 
was not that of one whose deep inward thoughts withdrew 
his attention from all outward objects. He rather resem- 
bled the hunter, on the watch for his game ; and, while he 
was yet at a distance from Ellen, a wandering gust of 
wind waved her white garment, and betrayed her. 

" It is as I feared," said Fanshawe to himself. He 
then drew nigh, and addressed Ellen with a calm author- 
ity that became him well, notwithstanding that his years 
scarcely exceeded her own. "Miss Langton," he in- 
quired, " what do you here at such an hour, and with 
such a companion ? " 

Ellen was sufficiently displeased at what she deemed 
the unauthorized intrusion of Eaushawe in her affairs ; 
but his imposing manner and her own confusion pre- 
vented her from replying. 

" Permit me to lead you to the house," he continued 
in the words of a request, but iu the tone of a command. 
" The dew hangs dank and heavy on these branches ; and 
a longer stay would be more dangerous than you are 
aware." 

Ellen would fain have resisted ; but though the tears 
hung as heavy on her eyelashes, between shame and an- 
ger, as the dew upon the leaves, she felt compelled to 
accept the arm that he offered her. But the stranger, 
who, since Fanshawe's approach, had remained a little 
apart, now advanced. 

" You speak as one in authority, young man," he said. 
" Have you the means of compelling obedience ? Does 
your power extend to men ? Or do you rule only over 
simple girls ? Miss Langton is under my protection. 



46 FANSHAWE. 

and, till you can bend me to your will, she shall remain 
so." 

Eanshawe turned calmly, and fixed his eyes on the 
stranger. "Retire, sir," was all he said. 

Ellen almost shuddered, as if there were a mysterious 
and unearthly power in Eanshawe's voice ; for she saw 
that the stranger endeavored in vain, borne down by the 
influence of a superior mind, to maintain the boldness 
of look and bearing that seemed natural to him. He 
at first made a step forward, then muttered a few half- 
audible words ; but, quailing at length beneath the young 
man's bright and steady eye, he turned and slowly with- 
drew. 

Fanshawe remained silent a moment after his oppo- 
nent had departed ; and, when he next spoke, it was in 
a tone of depression. Ellen observed, also, that his 
countenance had lost its look of pride and authority; 
and he seemed faint and exhausted. The occasion that 
called forth his energies had passed ; and they had left 
him. 

" Eorgive me. Miss Langton," he said almost humbly, 
" if my eagerness to serve you has led me too far. There 
is evil in this stranger, more than your pure mind can 
conceive. I know not what has been his errand; but 
let me entreat you to put confidence in those to whose 
care your father has intrusted you. Or if I — or — or 
Edward Walcott — But I have no right to advise you ; 
and your own calm thoughts will guide you best." 

He said no more ; and, as Ellen did not reply, they 
reached the house, and parted in silence. 




CHAPTER lY. 

" The seeds by nature planted 
Take a deep root in the soil, and though for a time 
The trenchant share and tearing harrow may 
Sweep all appearance of them from the surface, 
Yet Math the first wami rains of spring they '11 shoot. 
And with their rankness smother the good grain. 
Heaven grant, it may n't he so with him." 

Riches. 

HE scene of this tale must now be changed to 
the little inn, which at that period, as at the 
present, was situated in the vicinity of Harley 
College. The site of the modern establishment is the 
same with that of the ancient; but everything of the 
latter that had been built by hands has gone to decay 
and been removed, and only the earth beneath and 
around it remams the same. The modern building, a 
house of two stories, after a lapse of twenty years, is 
yet unfinished. On this account, it has retained the 
appellation of the "New Inn," though, like many who 
have frequented it, it has grown old ere its maturity. 
Its dingy whiteness, and its apparent superfluity of win- 
dows (many of them being closed with rough boards), 
give it somewhat of a dreary look, especially in a wet 
day. 



48 FANSHAWE. 

The ancient inn was a house, of which the eaves 
approached within about seven feet of the ground; 
while the roof, sloping gradually upward, formed an 
angle at several times that height. It was a comforta- 
ble and pleasant abode to the weary traveller, both in 
summer and winter ; for the frost never ventured within 
the sphere of its huge hearths; and it was protected 
from the heat of the sultry season by three large elms 
that swept the roof with their long branches, and seemed 
to create a breeze where there was not one. The device 
upon the sign, suspended from one of these trees, was 
a hand holding a long-necked bottle, and was much more 
appropriate than the present unmeaning representation 
of a black eagle. But it is necessary to speak rather 
more at length of the landlord than of the house over 
which he presided. 

Hugh Crombie was one for whom most of the wise 
men, who considered the course of his early years, had 
predicted the gallows as an end before he should arrive 
at middle age. That these prophets of ill had been 
deceived was evident from the fact that the doomed 
man had now passed the fortieth year, and was in more 
prosperous circumstances than most of those who had 
wagged their tongues against him. Yet the failure of 
their forebodings was more remarkable thau their ful- 
filment would have been. 

He had been distinguished, almost from his earliest 
infancy, by those precocious accomplishments, which, 
because they consist in an imitation of the vices and 
follies of maturity, render a boy the favorite plaything 
of men. He seemed to have received from nature the 



FANSHAWE. 49 

convivial talents, which, whether natural or acquired, 
are a most dangerous possession ; and, before his twelfth 
year, he was the welcome associate of all the idle and 
dissipated of his neighborhood, and especially of those 
who haunted the tavern of which he had now become 
tlie landlord. Under this course of education, Hugh 
Crombie grew to youth and manhood ; and the lovers 
of good words could only say in his favor, that he was 
a greater enemy to himself than to any one else, and 
that, if he should reform, few would have a better chance 
of prosperity than he. 

The former clause of this modicum of praise (if 
praise it may be termed) was indisputable; but it may 
be doubted, whether, under any circumstances where his 
success depended on his own exertions, Hugh would 
have made his way well through the world. He was 
one of those unfortunate persons, who, instead of being 
perfect in any single art or occupation, are superficial in 
many, and who are supposed to possess a larger share of 
talent than other men, because it consists of numerous 
scraps, instead of a single mass. He was partially ac- 
quainted with most of the manual arts that gave bread 
to others ; but not one of them, nor all of them, would 
give bread to him. By some fatality, the only two of 
his multifarious accomplishments in which his excel- 
lence was generally conceded were both calculated to 
keep him poor rather than to make him rich. He was a 
musician and a poet. 

There are yet remaining in that portion of the coun- 
try many ballads and songs, — set to their own peculiar 
tunes, — the authorship of which is attributed to him. 

3 D 



50 FANSHAWE. 

In general, bis productions were upon subjects of local 
and temporary interest, and would consequently require 
a bulk of explanatory notes to render them interesting 
or intelligible to the world at large, A considerable 
proportion of the remainder are Anacreontics; though, 
in their construction, Hugh Crombie imitated neither the 
Teian nor any other bard. These latter have generally 
a coarseness and sensuality intolerable to minds even of 
no very fastidious delicacy. But there .are two or three 
simple little songs, into which a feeling and a natural 
pathos have found their way, that still retain their influ- 
ence over the heart. These, after two or three centuries, 
may perhaps be precious to the collectors of our early 
poetry. At any rate, Hugh Crombie's effusions, tavern- 
haunter and vagrant though he was, have gained a con- 
tinuance of fame (confined, indeed, to a narrow section 
of the country) which many who called themselves poets 
then, and would have scorned such a brother, have failed 
to equal. 

During the long winter evenings, when the farmers 
were idle round their hearths, Hugh was a courted 
guest ; for none could while away the hours more skil- 
fully than he. The winter, therefore, was his season of 
prosperity ; in which respect he differed from the butter- 
flies and useless insects, to which he otherwise bore a 
resemblance. During the cold months, a very desirable 
alteration for the better appeared in his outward man. 
His cheeks were plump and sanguine; his eyes bright 
and cheerful; and the tip of his nose glowed with a 
Bardolphian fire, — a flame, indeed, which Hugh was so 
far a vestal as to supply with its necessary fuel at all 



FANSHAWE. 51 

seasons of the year. But, as the spring advanced, he 
assumed a lean and sallow look, wilting and fading in 
the sunshine that brought life and joy to every animal 
and vegetable except himself. His vrinter patrons eyed 
him with an austere regard; and some even practised 
upon him the modern and fashionable courtesy of the 
" cut direct." 

Yet, after all, there was good, or something that Na- 
ture intended to be so, in the poor outcast, — some 
lovely flowers, the sweeter even for the weeds that 
choked them. An instance of this was his affection for 
an aged father, whose whole support was the broken reed, 
— his son. Notwithstanding his own necessities, Hugh 
contrived to provide food and raiment for the old man : 
how, it would be difficult to say, and perhap^ as well not 
to inquire. He also exhibited traits of sensitiveness to 
neglect and insult, and of gratitude for favors ; both of 
which feelings a course of life like his is usually quick to 
eradicate. 

At length the restraint — for such his father had ever 
been — upon Hugh Crombie's conduct was removed by 
his death ; and then the wise men and the old began to 
shake their heads; and they who took pleasure in the 
follies, vices, and misfortunes of their fellow-creatures, 
looked for a speedy gratification. They were disap- 
pointed, however ; for Hugh had apparently determined, 
that, whatever might be his catastrophe, he would meet 
it among strangers, rather than at home. Shortly after 
his father's death, he disappeared altogether from the 
vicinity; and his name became, in the course of years, 
an unusual sound, where once the lack of other topics of 



i)-Z FANSHAWE. 

interest had given it a considerable degree of notoriety. 
Sometimes, however, when the winter blast was loud 
round the lonely farm-house, its inmates remembered 
him who had so often chased away the gloom of such an 
hour, and, though with little expectation of its fulfilment, 
expressed a wish to behold him again. 

Yet that wish, formed, perhaps, because it appeared so 
desperate, was finally destined to be gratified. One sum- 
mer evening, about two years previous to the period of 
this tale, a man of sober and staid deportment, mounted 
upon a white horse, arrived at the Hand and Bottle, to 
which some civil or military meeting had chanced, that 
day, to draw most of the inhabitants of the vicinity. 
The stranger was well though plainly dressed ; and any- 
where but in a retired country town would have attracted 
no particular attention : but here, where a traveller was 
not of every-day occurrence, he was soon surrounded by 
a little crowd, who, when his eye was averted, seized the 
opportunity diligently to peruse his person. He was 
rather a thick-set man, but with no superfluous flesh ; 
his hair was of iron-gray ; he had a few wrinkles ; his 
face was so deeply sunburnt, that, exceptmg a half- 
smothered glow on the tip of his nose, a dusky yellow 
was the only apparent hue. As the people gazed, it was 
observed that the elderly men, and the men of substance, 
gat themselves silently to their steeds, and hied home- 
ward with an unusual degree of haste ; till at length the 
inn was deserted, except by a few wretched objects to 
whom it was a constant resort. These, instead of re- 
treating, drew closer to the traveller, peeping anxiously 
into his face, and asking, ever and anon, a question, in 



FANS H AWE. 53 

order to discover the tone of his voice. At length, with 
one consent, and as if the recognition 'had at once burst 
upon them, they hailed their old boon-companion, Hugh 
Crombie, and, leading him into the inn, did him the 
honor to partake of a cup of welcome at his expense. 
But, though Hugh readily acknowledged the not very 
reputable acquaintances who alone acknowledo-ed him, 
they speedily discovered that he was an altered man! 
He partook with great moderation of the liquor for 
wJiich he was to pay; he decHned all their flattering 
entreaties for one of his old songs; and finally, being 
urged to engage in a game at aU-fours, he calmly ob- 
served, almost ill the words of an old clergyman on a 
like occasion, that his principles forbade a profane appeal 
to the decision by lot. 

On the next Sabbath Hugh Crombie made his appear- 
ance at public worship m the chapel of Harley College; 
and here his outward demeanor was unexceptionably 
serious and devout, — a praise which, on that particu- 
lar occasion, could be bestowed on few besides. From 
these favorable symptoms, the old established prejudices 
against him began to waver ; and as he seemed not to 
need, and to have no intention to ask, the assistance of 
any one, he was soon generally acknowledged by the 
rich as well as by the poor. His account of his past 
life, and of his intentions for the future, was brief, but 
not unsatisfactory. He said that, since his departure, 
he had been a seaftiring man, and that, having acquired 
sufficient property to render him easy in the decline of 
his days, he had returned to live and die in the town of 
liis nativity. 



54) FANSHAWE. 

There was one person, and the one whom Hugh was 
most interested to please, who seemed perfectly satisfied 
of the verity of his reformation. This was the landlady 
of the inn, whom, at his departure, he had left a gay, 
and, even at thirty-five, a rather pretty wife, and whom, 
on his return, he found a widow of fifty, fat, yellow, 
wrinkled, and a zealous member of the church. She, 
like others, had at first cast a cold eye on the wanderer ; 
but it shortly became evident to close observers, that a 
change was at work in the pious matron's sentiments re- 
specting her old acquaintance. She was now careful to 
give him his morning dram from her own peculiar bottle, 
to fill his pipe from her private box of Virginia, and to 
mix for him the sleeping-cup in which her late husband 
had delighted. Of all these courtesies Hugh Crombie 
did partake v/ith a wise and cautious moderation, that, 
while it proved them to be welcome, expressed his fear 
of trespassing on her kindness. For the sake of brevity, 
it shall suffice to say, that, about six weeks after Hugh's 
return, a writing appeared on one of the elm-trees in 
front of the tavern (where, as the place of greatest resort, 
such notices were usually displayed), setting forth that 
marriage was intended between Hugh Crombie and the 
Widow Sarah Hutchins. And the ceremony, which made 
Hugh a landholder, a householder, and a substantial man, 
in due time took place. 

As a landlord, his general conduct was very praise- 
worthy. He was moderate in his charges, and attentive 
to his guests ; he allowed no gross and evident disorders 
in his house, and practised none himself; he was kind 
and charitable to sucli as needed food and lodging, and 



FANSHAWE. 55 

had not wherewithal to pay, — for with these his expe- 
rience had doubtless given him a fellow-feeling. He was 
also sufficiently attentive to his wife ; though it must be 
acknowledged that the religious zeal which had had a 
considerable influence in. gaining her affections grew, by 
no moderate degrees, less fervent. It was whispered, 
too, that the new landlord could, when time, place, and 
company were to his mind, upraise a song as merrily, and 
drink a glass as joUily, as in the days of yore. These 
were the weightiest charges that could now be brought 
against him ; and wise men thought, that, whatever might 
have been the evil of his past Hfe, he had returned with 
a desire (which years of vice, if they do not sometimes 
produce, do not always destroy) of being honest, if op- 
portunity should offer; and Hugh had certainly a fair 
one. 

On the afternoon previous to the events related in the 
last chapter, the personage whose introduction to the 
reader has occupied so large a space was seated under 
one of the elms in front of his dwelling. The bench 
which now sustained him, and on which were carved the 
names of many former occupants, was Hugh Crombie's 
favorite louugiug-place, unless when his attentions were 
-required by his guests. No demand had that day been 
made upon the hospitality of the Hand and Bottle ; and 
the landlord was just then murmuring at the unfrequency 
of employment. The slenderness of his profits, indeed, 
were no part of his concern ; for the Widow Hutchins's 
chief income was drawn from her farm, nor was Hugh 
ever miserly inclined. But his education and habits had 
niade him delight in the atmosphere of the inn, and in 



56 FANSHAWE. 

the society of those who frequented it ; and of this species 
of enjoyment his present situation certainly did not afford 
an overplus. 

Yet had Hugh Crombie an enviable appearance of in- 
dolence and ease^, as he sat unddr the old tree, polluting 
the sweet air with his pipe, and taking occasional draughts 
from a brown jug that stood near at hand. The basis of 
the potation contained in this vessel was harsh old cider, 
from the widow's own orchard; but its coldness and 
acidity were rendered innocuous by a due proportion of 
yet older brandy. The result of this mixture was ex- 
tremely felicitous, pleasant to the taste, and producing a 
tinghug sensation on the coats of the stomach, uncom- 
monly delectable to so old a toper as Hugh. 

The landlord cast his eye, ever and anon, along the 
road that led down the valley in the direction of the vil- 
lage ; and at last, when the sun was wearing westward, 
he discovered the approach of a horseman. He immedi- 
ately replenished his pipe, took a long draught from the 
brown jug, summoned the ragged youth who officiated in 
most of the subordinate departments of the inn, and who 
was now to act as hostler, and then prepared himself for 
confabulation with his guest. 

" He comes from the sea-coast," said Hugh to himself, 
as the traveller emerged into open view on the level road. 
" He is two days in advance of the post, with its news of 
a fortnight old. Pray Heaven he prove communicative ! " 
Then, as the stranger drew nigher, " One would judge 
that his dark face had seen as hot a sun as mine. He 
has felt the burning breeze of the Indies, East and West, 
I warrant him. Ah, I see we shall send away the ef en. 



FANSHAWE. 57 

ing merrily ! Not a penny shall come out of his purse, — 
that is, if his tongue runs glibly. Just the man I was 
praying for— Now may the Devil take me if he is ! " 
interrupted Hugh in accents of alarm, and starting from 
his seat. He composed his countenance, however, with 
the power that long habit and necessity had given him 
over his emotions, and again settled himself quietly ou 
the bench. 

The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, alighted, 
and gave his horse to the ragged hostler. He then ad- 
vanced towards the door near which Hugh was seated, 
whose agitation was manifested by no perceptible sign, 
except by the shorter and more frequent puffs with which 
he plied his pipe. Their eyes did not meet till just 
as the stranger was about to enter, when he started ap- 
parently with a surprise and alarm similar to those of 
Hugh Crombie. He recovered himself, however, suffi- 
ciently to return the nod of recognition with which he 
was favored, and immediately entered the house, the 
landlord following. 

" This way, if you please, sir," said Hugh. '' You will 
find this apartment cool and retired." 

He ushered his guest into a small room the windows 
of which were darkened by the creeping plants that clus- 
tered round them. Entering, and closing the door, the 
two gazed at each other a little space without speaking. 
The traveller first broke silence. 

" Then this is your living self, Hugh Crombie ? " he 
said. The landlord extended his hand as a practical re- 
ply to the question. The stranger took it, though with 
no especial appearance of cordiality. 



58 FANSHAWE. 

"Ay, this seems to be flesh and blood," he said, in 
the tone of one who would willingly have found it other- 
wise. " And how happens this, friend Hugh ? I little 
tliought to meet you again in this life. When I last 
heard from you, your prayers were said, and you were 
bound for a better world." 

" There would have been small danger of your meeting 
me there," observed the landlord, dryly. 

"It is an unquestionable truth, Hugh," replied the 
traveller. " For which reason I regret that your voyage 
was delayed." 

" Nay, that is a hard word to bestow on your old com- 
rade," said Hugh Crombie. " The world is wide enough 
for both of us ; and why should you wish me out of it ? " 

"Wide as it is," rejoined the stranger, "we have 
stumbled against each other, — to the pleasure of nei- 
ther of us, if I may judge from your countenance. 
Methinks I am not a welcome guest at Hugh Crombie's 
inn." 

"Your welcome must depend on the cause of your 
coming, and the length of your stay," replied the land- 
lord. 

" And what if I come to settle down among these quiet 
hills where I was born ? " inquired the other. " What 
if I, too, am weary of the life we have led, — or afraid, 
perhaps, that it will come to too speedy an end ? Shall 
I have your good word, Hugh, to set me up in an honest 
way of life ? Or will you make me a partner in your 
trade, since you know my qualifications ? A pretty pair 
of publicans should we be ; and the quart pot would have 
little rest between us." 



FANSHAWE. 59 

"It may be as well to replenish it now," observed 
Hugh, stepping to the door of the room, and giving 
orders accordingly. "A meeting between old friends 
should never be dry. But for the partnership, it is 
a matter in which you must excuse me. Heaven 
knows I find it hard enough to be honest, with no 
tempter but the Devil and my own thoughts; and, if 
I have you also to contend with, there is little hope 
of me." 

"Nay, that is true. Your good resolutions were 
always like cobwebs, and your evil habits like five-inch 
cables," replied the traveller. "I am to understand, 
then, that you refuse my offer?" 

"Not only that; but, if you have chosen this valley 
as your place of rest, Dame Crombie and I must look 
through the world for another. But hush ! here comes 
the wine." 

The hostler, in the performance of another part of his 
duty, now appeared, bearing a measure of the liquor that 
Hugh had ordered. The wine of that period, owing to 
the comparative lowness of the duties, was of more mod- 
erate price than in the mother-country, and of purer and 
better quality than at the present day. 

" The stuff is well chosen, Hugh," observed the guest, 
after a draught large enough to authorize an opinion. 
" You have most of the requisites for your present sta- 
tion; and I should be sorry to draw you from it. I 
trust there will be no need." 

" Yet you have a purpose in your journey hither," ob- 
served his comrade. 

" Yes ; and you would fain be informed of it," replied 



60 FANSHAWE. 

the traveller. He arose, and walked once or twice across 
the room ; then, seeming to have taken his resolution, he 
paused, and fixed his eye steadfastly on Hugh Crombie. 
" I could wish, iny old acquaintance," lie said, " that your 
lot had been cast anywhere rather than here. Yet, if you 
choose it, you may do me a good office, and one that shall 
meet with a good reward. Can I trust you ? " 

"My secrecy, you can," answered the host, "but 
nothing further. I know the nature of your plans, and 
vvliither they would lead me, too well to engage in them. 
To say the truth, since it concerns not me, I have little 
desire to hear your secret." 

"And I as little to tell it, I do assure you," rejoined 
the guest. " I have always loved to manage my affairs 
myself, and to keep them to myself. It is a good rule ; 
but it must sometimes be broken. And now, Hugh, how 
is it that you have become possessed of this comfortable 
dwelling and of these pleasant fields ? " 

"By my marriage with the Widow Sarah Hutchins," 
replied Hugh Crombie, staring at a question which 
seemed to have little reference to the present topic of 
conversation. 

"It is a most excellent method of becoming a man 
of substance," continued the traveller; "attended with 
little trouble, and honest withal." 

"Why, as to the trouble," said the landlord, "it fol- 
lows sucli a bargain, instead of going before it. And for 
honesty, — I do not recollect that I have gained a penny 
more honestly these twenty years." 

" I can swear to that," observed his comrade. " Well, 
niine host, I entirely approve of your doings, and, more- 



FANSHAWE. 61 

over, have resolved to prosper after the same fashion 
myself." 

" If that be the commodity you seek," replied Hugh 
Crombie, " you will fiud none here to your mind. We 
have widows in plenty, it is true ; but most of them have 
children, and few have houses and lands. But now to 
be serious, — and there has been something serious in 
your eye all this while, — what is your purpose in com- 
ing hither ? You are not safe here. Your name has had 
a wider spread than mme, and, if discovered, it will go 
hard with you." 

" But who would know me now ? " asked the guest. 

" Few, few indeed ! " replied the landlord, gazing at 
the dark features of his companion, where hardship, 
peril, and dissipation had each left their traces. " No, 
you are not like the slender boy of fifteen, who stood on 
the hill by moonhght to take a last look at his father's 
cottage. There were tears in your eyes then; and, as 
often as I remember them, I repent that I did not turn 
you back, instead of leading you on." 

"Tears, were there? Well, there have been few 
enough since," said his comrade, pressmg his eyelids 
firmly together, as if even then tempted to give way to 
the weakness that he scorned. " And, for turning me 
back, Hugh, it was beyond your power. I had taken 
my resolution, and you did but show me the way to exe- 
cute it." 

" You have not inquired after those you left behind," 
observed Hugh Crombie. 

" No — no ; nor will I have aught of them," exclaimed 
the traveller, starting from his seat, and pacing rapidly 



61 FANSHAWE. 

across the room. '' My father, I know, is dead, and I 
have forgiven him. My mother — what could I hear of 
her but misery ? I will hear nothing." 

"You must have passed the cottage as you rode 
hitherward," said Hugh. " How could you forbear to 
enter ? " 

" I did not see it," he replied. " I closed my eyes, 
and turned away my bead." 

" O, if I bad bad a mother, a loving mother ! if there 
had been one being in the world that loved me, or cared 
for me, I should not have become an utter castaway," 
exclaimed Hugh Crombie. 

The landlord's pathos, like all pathos that flows from 
the wniecup, was sufficiently ridiculous; and his com- 
panion, who had already overcome his own brief feelings 
of sorrow and remorse, now laughed aloud. 

" Come, come, mine host of the Hand and Bottle," he 
cried in his usual hard, sarcastic tone; "be a man as 
much as in you lies. You had always a foolish trick of 
repentance ; but, as I remember, it was commonly of a 
morning, before you had swallowed your first dram. 
And now, Hugh, fill the quart pot again, and we will to 
business." 

When the landlord had complied with the wishes of 
his guest, the latter resumed in a lower tone than that 
of his ordinary conversation, — 

" There is a young lady lately become a resident here- 
abouts. Perhaps you can guess her name ; for you have 
a quick apprehension in these matters." 

" A young lady ? " repeated Hugh Crombie. " And 
what is your concern with her? Do you mean Ellen 



FANSHAWE. 63 

Langton, daughter of the old mercliant Langton, whom 
you have some cause to remember ? " 

" I do remember him ; but he is where he will speed- 
ily be forgotten," answered the traveller. "And this 
girl, — I know your eye has been upon her, Hugh, — 
describe her to me." 

" Describe her ! " exclaimed Hugh with much anima- 
tion. " It is impossible in prose ; but you shall have 
her very picture in a verse of one of ray own songs." 

" Nay, mine host, I beseech you to spare me. This is 
no time for quavering," said the guest. " However, I 
am proud of your approbation, my old friend ; for tliis 
young lady do I intend to take to wife. What think 
you of the plan ? " 

Hugh Crombie gazed into his companion's face for the 
space of a moment, in silence. There was nothing in its 
expression that looked like a jest. It still retained the 
same hard, cold look, that, . except when Hugh had 
alluded to his home and family, it had worn through 
their whole conversation. 

" On my word, comrade ! " he at length replied, " my 
advice is, that you give over your application to the 
quart pot, and refresh your brain by a short nap. And 
yet your eye is cool and steady. What is the meaning 
of tiiis ? " 

" Listen, and you shall know," said the guest. " The 
old man, her father, is in his grave." 

" Not a bloody grave, I trust," interrupted the land- 
lord, starting, and looking fearfully into his comrade's 
face. 

" No, a watery one," he replied calmly. " You see, 



61< FANSHAWE. 

Hugh, I am a better man tliau you took me for. The 
old man's blood is not on my head, though my wrongs 
are on his. Now listen : he had no heir but this only 
daughter ; and to her, and to the man she marries, all 
his wealth will belong. She shall marry me. Think 
you her father will rest easy in the ocean, Hugh Crom- 
bie, when I am his son-in-law ? " 

" No, he will rise up to prevent it, if need be," an- 
swered the landlord. " But the dead need not interpose 
to frustrate so wild a scheme." 

" I understand you," said his oomrade. " You are of 
opinion that the young lady's consent may not be so soon 
won as asked. Pear not for that, mine host. I have a 
winning way with me, when opportunity serves ; and it 
shall serve with Ellen Langton. I will have no rivals in 
my wooing." 

"Your intention, if I take it rightly, is to get this 
poor girl into your power, and then to force her into a 
marriage," said Hugh Crombie. 

" It is ; and I think I possess the means of doing it," 
replied his comrade. " But methinks, friend Hugh, my 
enterprise has not your good wishes." 

"No; and I pray you to give it over," said Hugh 
Crombie, very earnestly. " The girl is young, lovely, 
and as good as she is fair. I cannot aid in her ruiu. 
Nay, more : I must prevent it." 

" Prevent it ! " exclaimed the traveller, with a darken- 
ing countenance. " Think twice before you stir in this 
matter, I advise you. Ruin, do you say ? Does a girl 
call it ruin to be made an honest wedded wife ? No, no, 
mine host ! nor does a widow either, else have you much 
to answer for." 



FANSHAWE. 65 

" I gave the Widow Hutchins fair play, at least, which 
is more than poor Elleu is like to get," observed the 
landlord. " My old comradfe, will you not give up this 
scheme ? " 

"My old comrade, I will not give up this scheme," 
returned the other, composedly. "Why, Hugh, what 
has come over you since we last met ? Have we not 
done twenty worse deeds of a morning, and laughed 
over them at night?" 

" He is right there," said Hugh Crombie, in a medi- 
tative tone. " Of a certainty, my conscience has grown 
unreasonably tender within the last two years. This one 
small siu, if I were to aid in it, would add but a trifle to 
the sum of mine. But then the poor girl ! " 

His companion overheard him thus communing with 
himself, and, having had much former experience of his 
infirmity of purpose, doubted not that he should bend 
him to his will. In fact, his arguments were so effectual, 
that Hugh at length, though reluctantly, promised his 
co-operation. It was necessary that their motions should 
be speedy ; for on the second day thereafter, the arrival 
of the post would bring intelligence of the shipwreck by 
which Mr. Langton had perished. 

" And after the deed is done," said the landlord, " I 
beseech you never to cross my path again. There have 
been more wicked thoughts in my head within the last 
hour than for the whole two years that I have been an 
honest man." 

" What a saint art thou become, Hugh ! " said his 
comrade. "But fear not that we shall meet again. 
When I leave this valley, it will be to enter it no more." 



66 FANSHAWE. 

"And there is little danger that any other who has 
known me will chance upon me here," observed Hugh 
Crombie. " Our trade was unfavorable to length of 
days, and I suppose most of our old comrades have 
arrived at the end of theirs." 

" One whom you knew well is nearer to you than you 
think," answered the traveller; "for I did not travel 
hitherward entirely alone." 




CHAPTEE V. 



"A naughty night to swim in." — Shakespeare. 




HE evening of the day succeeding the adventure 
of the angler was dark and tempestuous. The 
rain descended almost in a continuous sheet ; and 
occasional powerful gusts of wind drove it hard against 
the northeastern windows of Hugh Crombie's inn. But 
at least one apartment of the interior presented a scene 
of comfort and of apparent enjoyment, the more delight- 
ful from its contrast with the elemental fury that raged 
without. A fire, which the chillness of the evening, 
though a summer one, made necessary, was burning 
brightly on the hearth ; and in front was placed a small 
round table, sustaining wine and glasses. One of the 
guests for whom these preparations had been made was 
Edward Walcott : the other was a shy, awkward young 
man, distinguished, by the union of classic and rural 
dress, as having but lately become a student of Harley 
College. He seemed little at his ease, probably from 
a consciousness that he was on forbidden ground, and 
that the wine, of which he nevertheless swallowed a 
larger share than his companion, was an unlawful 
draught. 



68 FANSHAWE. 

Ill the catalogue of crimes provided against by the 
laws of Harley College, that of taverii-hauutiug was one 
of the principal. The secluded situation of the semi- 
nary, indeed, gave its scholars but a very limited choice 
of vices ; and this was, therefore, the usual channel by 
which the wildness of youth discharged itself. Edward 
"VYalcott, though naturally temperate, had been not an 
nufrequent offender in this respect, for which a superflu- 
ity both of time and money might plead some excuse. 
But, since his acquaintance with Ellen Langton, he had 
rarely entered Hugh Crombie's doors ; and an interrup- 
tion in that acquaintance was the cause of his present 
appearance there. 

Edward's jealous pride had been considerably touched 
on Ellen's compliance with the request of the angler. 
He had, by degrees, imperceptible perhaps to himself, 
assumed the right of feeling displeased with her con- 
duct ; and she had, as imperceptibly, accustomed herself 
to consider what would be his wishes, and to act accord- 
ingly. He would, indeed, in no contingency have ven- 
tured an open remonstrance ; and such a proceeding 
would have been attended by a result the reverse of 
what he desired. But there existed between them a 
silent compact (acknowledged perhaps by neither, but 
felt by both), according to which they had regulated the 
latter part of their intercourse. Their lips had yet spoken 
no word of love ; but some of love's rights and priv- 
ileges had been assumed on the one side, and at least not 
disallowed on the other. 

Edward's penetration had been sufficiently quick to 
discover that there was a mystery about the angler, that 



FANSHAWE. 69 

there must have been a cause for the blush that rose so 
proudly on Ellen's cheek ; and his Quixotism had been 
not a little mortified, because she did not immediately 
appeal to his protection. He had, however, paid his 
usual visit the next day at Dr. Melmoth's, expecting 
that, by a smile of more than common brightness, she 
would make amends to his wounded feelings; such 
having been her usual mode of reparation in the few 
instances of disagreement that had occurred between 
them. But he was disappointed. He found her cold, 
silent, and abstracted, inattentive when he spoke, and 
indisposed to speak herself. Her eye was sedulously 
averted from his ; and the casual meeting of their 
glances only proved that there were feelings in her 
bosom which he did not share. He was unable to 
account for this change in her deportment ; and, added 
to his previous conceptions of his wrongs, it produced 
an effect upon his rather hasty temper, that might have 
manifested itself violently, but for the presence of Mrs. 
Melmoth. He took his leave in very evident displeas- 
ure ; but, just as he closed the dooi^, he noticed an 
expression in Ellen's countenance, that, had they been 
alone, and had not he been quite so proud, would have 
drawn him down to her feet. Their eyes met, when, 
suddenly, there was a gush of tears into those of Ellen ; 
and a deep sadness, almost despair, spread itself over 
her features. He paused a moment, and then went his 
way, equally unable to account for her coldness, or for 
her grief. He was well aware, however, that his situa- 
tion in respect to her was unaccountably changed, — a 
conviction so disngreoable, tliat, but for a hope that is 



70 FANSHAWE. 

latent even in the despair of youthful hearts, he would 
have been sorely tempted to shoot himself. 

The gloom of his thoughts — a mood of mind the more 
intolerable to him, because so unusual — had driven him 
to Hugh Crombie's inn in search of artificial excitement. 
But even the wine had no attractions ; and his first glass 
stood now almost untouched before him, while he gazed 
in heavy thought into the glowing embers of the fire. 
His companion perceived his melancholy, and essayed to 
dispel it by a choice of such topics of conversation as he 
conceived would be most agreeable. 

" There is a lady in the house," he observed. " I 
caught a glimpse of her in the passage as we came in. 
Did you see her, Edward ? " 

" A lady ! " repeated Edward, carelessly. " What 
know you of ladies ? No, I did not see her ; but I will 
venture to say that it was Dame Crombie's self, and no 
other." 

" Well, perhaps it might," said the other, doubtingly. 
" Her head was turned from me, and she was gone like a 
shadow." 

" Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never vanishes like 
one," resumed Edward. " You have mistaken the slip- 
shod servant-girl for a lady." 

" Ay ; but she had a white hand, a small white hand," 
said the student, piqued at Edward's contemptuous opin- 
ion of his powers of observation; "as white as Ellen 
Laugton's." He paused ; for the lover was offended by 
the profanity of the comparison, as was made evident by 
the blood that rushed to his brow. 

" We will appeal to the landlord," said Edward, re- 



FANSHAWE. 71 

covering his equanimity, and turning to Hugh, who just 
then entered the room. " Who is this angel, mine host, 
that has taken up her abode in the Hand and Bottle ? " 

Hugh cast a quick glance from one to another before 
he answered, " I keep no angels here, gentlemen. Dame 
Crombie would make the house anything but heaven for 
them and me." 

" And yet Glover has seen a vision in the passageway, 
— a lady with a small white hand." 

" Ah, I understand ! A slight mistake of the young 
gentleman's," said Hugh, with the air of one who could 
perfectly account for the mystery. "Our passageway 
is dark ; or perhaps the light had dazzled his eyes. It 
was the Widow Fowler's daughter, that came to borrow 
a pipe of tobacco for her mother. By the same token, 
she put it into her own sweet mouth, and puffed as she 
went along." 

"But the white hand," said Glover, only half con- 
vinced. 

" Nay, I know not," answered Hugh. " But her hand 
was at least as white as her face : that I can swear. 
Well, gentlemen, I trust you find everything in my 
house to your satisfaction. When the fire needs renew- 
ing, or the wine runs low, be pleased to tap on the table. 
I shall appear with the speed of a sunbeam." 

After the departure of the landlord, the conversation 
of the young men amounted to little more than monosyl- 
lables. Edward Walcotf was wrapped in his own con- 
templations ; and his companion was in a half-slumberous 
state, from which he started every quarter of an hour, at 
the chiming of the clock that stood in a corner. The fire 



72 FANSHAWE. 

died gradually away ; the lamps began to burn dim ; and 
Glover, rousing himself from one of his periodical slum- 
bers, was about to propose a return to their chambers. 
He was prevented, however, by the approach of footsteps 
along the passageway ; and Hugh Crombie, opening the 
door, ushered a person into the room, and retired. 

The new-comer was Fanshawe. The water that poured 
plentifully from his cloak evinced that he had but just 
arrived at the inn; but, whatever was his object, he 
seemed not to have attained it in meeting with the young 
men. He paused near the door, as if meditating whether 
to retire. 

" My intrusion is altogether owing to a mistake, either 
of the landlord's or mine," he said. " I came hither to 
seek another person; but, as I could not mention his 
name, my inquiries were rather vague." 

" I thank Heaven for the chance that sent you to us," 
replied Edward, rousing hunself. " Glover is wretched 
company ;. and a duller evening have I never spent. We 
will renew our fire and our wine, and you must sit down 
with us. And for the man you seek," he continued in a 
whisper, "he left the inn within a half-hour after we 
encountered him. I inquired of Hugh Crombie last 
night." 

Eanshawe did not express his doubts of the correctness 
of the information on which Edward seemed to rely. 
Laying aside his cloak, he accepted his invitation to 
make one of the party, and sat down by the fireside. 

The aspect of the evening now gradually changed. A 
strange wild glee spread from one to another of the party, 
which, much to the surprise of his companions, began 



FANS II AWE. 73 

with, and was communicated from, Fansliawe. He 
seemed to overflow with conceptions inimitably ludicrous, 
but so singular, that, till his hearers had imbibed a por- 
tion of his own spirit, they could only wonder at, instead 
of enjoying them. His applications to the wine were 
very unfrequent ; yet his conversation was such as one 
might expect from a bottle of champagne endowed by a 
fairy with the gift of speech. The secret of this strange 
mirth lay in the troubled state of his spirits, which, like 
the vexed ocean at midnight (if the simile be not too 
magnificent), tossed forth a mysterious brightness. The 
undefined apprehensions that had drawn him to the inn 
still distracted his mind; but, mixed with them, there 
was a sort of joy not easily to be described. By degrees, 
and by the assistance of the wine, the inspiration spread, 
each one contributing such a quantity, and such quality 
of wit and whim, as was proportioned to his genius ; but 
each one, and all, displaying a greater share of both than 
they had ever been suspected of possessing. 

At length, however, there was a pause, — the deep 
pause of flagging spirits, that always follows mirth and 
wine. No one would have believed, on beholding the 
pensive faces, and hearing the involuntary sighs of the 
party, that from these, but a moment before, had arisen 
so loud and wild a laugh. During this interval Edward 
Walcott (who was the poet of his class) volunteered the 
following song, which, from its want of polish, and from 
its application to his present feelings, might charitably be 
taken for an extemporaneous production : — 

The wine is bright, the wine is bright; 
And gay the drinkers be: 
4 



74 FANSHAWE. 

Of all that drain the bowl to-night. 

Most jollily drain we. 
O, could one search the weary earth, — 

The earth from sea to sea, — 
He 'd turn and mingle in our mirth ; 

For we 're the merriest three. 

Yet there are cares, oh, heavy cares ! 

We know that they are nigh : 
When forth each lonely drinker fares, 

Mark then his altered eye. 
Care comes upon us when the jest 

And frantic laughter die ; 
And care will watch the parting guest — 

late, then let us fly ! 

Hugh Crombie, whose early love of song and min- 
strelsy was still alive, had entered tlie room at the sound 
of Edward's voice, in sufficient time to accompany the 
second stanza on the violin. He now, with the air of one 
who was entitled to judge in these matters, expressed his 
opinion of the performance. 

"Really, Master Walcott, I was not prepared for 
this," he said in the tone of condescending praise that a 
great man uses to his inferior when be chooses to over- 
whelm him with excess of joy. "Very well, indeed, 
young gentleman! Some of the lines, it is true, seem 
to have been dragged in by the head and shoulders ; but 
I could scarcely have done much better myself at your 
age. With practice, and with such instruction as I 
might afford you, I should have little doubt of your 
becoming a distinguished poet. A great defect in your 



FANSHAWE. 75 

seminary, gentlemen, — the want of due cultivation in 
this heavenly art." 

"Perhaps, sir," said Edward, with much gravity, "you 
might yourself be prevailed upon to accept the professor- 
ship of poetry ? " 

"Why, such an offer would require consideration," 
replied the landlord. "Professor Hugh Crombie of 
Harley College : it has a good sound, assuredly. But I 
am a public man, Master Walcott ; and the public would 
be loath to spare me from my present office." 

" Will Professor Crombie favor us with a specimen of 
his productions ? " inquired Edward. 

" Ahem, I shall be happy to gratify you, young gentle- 
man," answered Hugh. "It is seldom, in this rude 
country. Master Walcott, that we meet with kindred 
genius; and the opportunity should never be thrown 
away." 

Thus saying, he took a heavy draught of the liquor by 
which he was usually inspired, and the praises of which 
were the prevailing subject of his song ; then, after much 
hemming, thrumming, and prelusion, and with many 
queer gestures and gesticulations, he began to effuse a 
lyric in the following fashion: — • 

I 've been a jolly drinker this five-aud-twenty year, 
And stm a jolly drinker, my friends, you see me here : 
I sing the joys of drinking ; bear a chorus, every man, 
"With pint pot and quart pot and clattering of can. 

The sense of the professor's first stanza was not in 
exact proportion to the sound ; but, being executed with 
great spirit, it attracted universal applause. This Hugh 



76 FANSHAWE. 

appropriated with a condescending bow and smile ; and, 
mailing a signal for silence^ he went on, — 

King Solomon of old, boys (a jolly king was he), — 

But here he was interrupted by a clapping of hands, 
that seemed a continuance of the applause bestowed on 
his former stanza. Hugh Crombie, who, as is the cus- 
tom of many great performers, usually sang with his 
eyes shut, now opened them, intending gently to rebuke 
his auditors for their unseasonable expression of delight. 
He immediately perceived, however, that the fault was 
to be attributed to neither of the three young men ; and, 
following the direction of their eyes, he saw near the 
door, in the dim background of the apartment, a figure 
in a cloak. The hat was flapped forward, the cloak muf- 
fled round the lower part of the face ; and only the eyes 
were visible. 

The party gazed a moment in silence, and then rushed 
en masse upon the intruder, the landlord bringing up the 
rear, and sounding a charge upon his fiddle. But, as 
they drew nigh, the black cloak began to assume a fa- 
miliar look ; the hat, also, was an old acquaintance ; and, 
these being removed, from beneath them shone forth the 
reverend face and form of Dr. Mehnoth. 

The president, in his quality of clergyman, had, late 
in the preceding afternoon, been called to visit an 
aged female who was supposed to be at the point of 
death. Her habitation was at the distance of several 
miles from Harley College ; so that it was nightfall be- 
fore Dr. Melmoth stood at her bedside. His stay had 
been lengthened beyond his anticipation, on account of 



FANSHAWE. 77 

the frame of mind in wbicb he found the dying woman ; 
and, after essaying to impart the comforts of religion to 
her disturbed intellect, he had waited for the abatement 
of the storm that had arisen while be was thus engaged. 
As the evening advanced, however, the rain poured down 
in undiminished cataracts ; and the doctor, trusthig to 
the prudence and sure-footedness of his steed, had at 
length set forth on his return. The darkness of the 
night, and the roughness of the road, might have ap- 
palled him, even had his horsemanship and his courage 
been more considerable than they were; but by the 
special protection of Providence, as he reasonably sup- 
posed (for he was a good man, and on a good errand), 
he arrived safely as far as Hugh Crombie's inn. Dr. 
Melmoth had no intention of making a stay there ; but, 
as the road passed within a very short distance, he saw 
lights in the wmdows, and heard the sound of song and 
revelry. It immediately occurred to him, that these mid- 
night rioters were, probably, some of the young men of 
his charge ; and he was impelled, by a sense of duty, to 
enter and disperse them. Directed by the voices, he 
found his way, with some difficulty, to the apartment, 
just as Hugh concluded his first stanza ; and, amidst the 
subsequent applause, his entrance had been unperceived. 

There was a silence of a moment's continuance after 
the discovery of Dr. Melmoth, during which he attempted 
to clothe his round, good-natured face in a look of awful 
dignity. But, in spite of himself, there was a little 
twisting of the comers of his mouth, and a smothered 
gleam in his eye. 

"This has, apparently, been a vej-y merry meeting. 



78 FANSHAWE. 

young gentlemen/' he at length said ; " but I fear my 
presence has cast a damp upon it." 

" yes ! your reverence's cloak is vret enough to 
cast a damp upon anything," exclaimed Hugh Crombie, 
assuming a look of tender anxiety, " The young gentle- 
men are affrighted for your valuable life. I'ear deprives 
them of utterance : permit me to relieve you of these 
dangerous garments." 

" Trouble not yourself, honest man," replied the doc- 
tor, who was one of the most gullible of mortals. " I 
trust I am in no danger ; my dwelling being near at 
hand. But for these young men — " 

" Would your reverence but honor my Sunday suit, — 
the gray broadcloth coat, and the black velvet small- 
clothes, that have covered my unworthy legs but once ? 
Dame Crombie shall have them ready in a moment," 
continued Hugh, beginning to divest the doctor of his 
garments. 

" I pray you to appease your anxiety," cried Dr. Mel- 
moth, retaining a firm hold on such parts of his dress as 
yet remained to him. "Fear not for my health. I will 
but speak a word to those misguided youth, and be 
gone." 

" Misguided youth, did your reverence say ? " echoed 
Hugh, in a tone of utter astonishment. " Never were 
they better guided than when they entered my poor 
house. O, had your reverence but seen them, when I 
heard their cries, and rushed forth to their assistance. 
Dripping with wet were they, like three drowned men at 
the resurrec — Ahem ! " interrupted Hugh, recollecting 
that the comparison he meditated might not suit the doc- 
tor's ideas of propriety. 



FANSHAWE. 79 

" But why were they abroad on such a night ? " in- 
quired the president. 

" Ah ! doctor, you little know the love these good 
young gentlemen bear for you," replied the landlord. 
" Your absence, your long absence, had alarmed them ; 
and they rushed forth through the rain and darkness to 
seek you." 

" And was this indeed so ? " asked the doctor, in a 
softened tone, and casting a tender and grateful look 
upon the three students. They, it is but justice to men- 
tion, had simultaneously made a step forward m order 
to contradict the egregious falsehoods of which Hugh's 
fancy was so fertile ; but he assumed an expression of 
such ludicrous entreaty, that it was irresistible. 

"But methinks their anxiety was not of long con- 
tinuance," observed Dr. Melmoth, looking at the wine, 
and remembering the song that his entrance had inter- 
rupted. 

" Ah ! your reverence disapproves of the wine, I see," 
answered Hugh Crombie. " I did but offer them a drop 
to keep the life in their poor young hearts. My dame 
advised strong waters; 'But, Dame Crombie,' says I, 
' would ye corrupt their youth ? ' And in my zeal for 
their good, doctor, I was delighting them, just at your 
entrance, with a pious little melody of my own against 
the sin of drunkenness." 

" Truly, I remember something of the kind," observed 
Dr. Melmoth. "And, as I think, it seemed to meet 
with good acceptance." 

" Ay, that it did ! " said the landlord. " Will it please 
your reverence to hear it ? — 



80 FANSHAWE. 

King Solomon of old, boys (a wise man I 'm thinking), 

Has warned you to beware of the horrid vice of drinking — 
But why talk I of drinking, foolish man that I am ! And 
all this time, doctor, you have not sipped a drop of my 
wine. Now I entreat your reverence, as you value your 
health and the peace and quiet of these youth." 

Dr. Melmoth drank a glass of wine, with the benevo- 
lent intention of allaying the anxiety of Hugh Crombie and 
the students. He then prepared to depart ; for a strong 
wind had partially dispersed the clouds, and occasioned an 
interval in the cataract of rain. There was, perhaps, a 
little suspicion yet remaining in the good man's mind re- 
specting the truth of the landlord's story: at least, it was 
his evident intention to see the students fairly out of the 
inn before he quitted it himself. They tlierefore pro- 
ceeded along the passageway in a body. The lamp that 
Hugh Crombie held but dimly enlightened them ; and 
the number and contiguity of the doors caused Dr. Mel- 
moth to lay his hand upon the wrong one. 

" Not there, not there, doctor ! It is Dame Crombie's 
bedchamber," shouted Hugh, most energetically. " Now 
Beelzebub defend me ! " he muttered to himself, per- 
ceiving that his exclamation had been a moment too 
late. 

" Heavens ! what do I see ? " ejaculated Dr. Melmoth, 
lifting his hands, and starting back from the entrance of 
the room. The three students pressed forward ; Mrs. 
Crombie and the servant-girl had been drawn to the spot 
by the sound of Hugh's voice ; and all their wondering 
eyes were fixed on poor Ellen Langton. 

The apartment in the midst of which she stood was 



FANSHAWE. 81 

dimly lighted by a solitary caudle at the farther extrem- 
ity ; but EUeu was exposed to the glare of the three 
lamps, held by Hugh, his wife, aud the servant-girl. 
Their combiued rays seemed to form a focus exactly at 
the point where they reached her; 'and the beholders, 
had any been sufficiently calm, might have watched her 
features in their agitated workings and frequent change 
of expression, as perfectly as by the broad hght of day. 
Terror had at first blanched her as white as a lily, or as 
a marble statue, which for a moment she resembled, as 
she stood motionless in the centre of the room. Shame 
next bore sway ; and her blushing countenance, covered 
by her slender white fingers, might fantastically be com- 
pared to a variegated rose with its alternate stripes of 
white and red. The next instant, a sense of her pure 
and innocent intentions gave her strength and courage ; 
and her attitude and look had now something of pride 
aud dignity. These, however, in their turn, gave way ; 
for Edward Walcott pressed forward, and attempted to 
address her. 

" Ellen, Ellen ! " he said, in an agitated and quivering 
whisper ; but what was to follow cannot be known ; for 
his emotion checked his utterance. His tone and look, 
however, again overcame Ellen Langton, and she burst 
into tears. Fanshawe advanced, and took Edward's 
arm. *' She has been deceived," he whispered. " She 
is innocent : you are unworthy of her, if you doubt it." 

" Why do you interfere, sir ? " demanded Edward, 

whose passions, thoroughly excited, would willingly have 

wreaked themselves on any one. " What right have you 

to speak of her innocence ? Perhaps," he continued, an 

4* F 



82 FAN SH AWE. 

undefined and ridiculous suspicion arising in his mind, — 
" perhaps you are acquainted with her intentions. Per- 
haps you are the deceiver." 

Panshawe's temper was not naturally of the meekest 
character ; and having had a thousand bitter feelings of 
his own to overcome, before he could attempt to console 
Edward, this rude repulse had almost aroused him to 
fierceness. But his pride, of which a more moderate 
degree would have had a less peaceable effect, came to 
his assistance ; and he turned calmly and contemptuously 
away. 

Ellen, in the mean time, had been restored to some 
degree of composure. To this effect, a feeling of pique 
against Edward Walcott had contributed. She had dis- 
tinguished his voice in the neighboring apartment, had 
heard his mirth and wild laughter, without being aware 
of the state of feeling that produced them. She had 
supposed that the terms on which they parted in the 
morning (which had been very grievous to herself) would 
have produced a corresponding sadness in him. But 
while she sat in loneliness and in tears, her bosom dis- 
tracted by a thousand anxieties and sorrows, of many 
of which Edward was the object, his reckless gayety had 
seemed to prove the slight regard in which he held her. 
After the first outbreak of emotion, therefore, she called 
up her pride (of which, on proper occasions, she had a 
reasonable share), and sustained his upbraiding glance 
with a passive composure, which women have more 
readily at command than men. 

Dr. Melmoth's surprise had during this time kept him 
silent and inactive. He gazed alternately from one to 



FANSHAWE. 83 

another of those who stood around him, as if to seek 
some explanation of so strange an event. But the faces 
of all were as perplexed as his own ; even Hugh Cronibie 
had assumed a look of speechless wonder, — speechless, 
because his imagination, prolific as it was, could not sup- 
ply a plausible falsehood. 

" Ellen, dearest child," at length said the doctor, " what 
is the meaning of this ? " 

Ellen endeavored to reply ; but, as her composure was 
merely external, she was unable to render her words 
audible. Eanshawe spoke in a low voice to Dr. Mel- 
moth, who appeared grateful for his advice. 

" True, it will be the better way," he replied. " My 
wits are utterly confounded, or I should not have re- 
mained thus long. Come, my dear child," he continued, 
advancing to Ellen, and taking her hand, " let us return 
home, and defer the explanation till the morrow. There, 
there: only dry your eyes, and we will say no more 
about it." 

"And that will be your wisest way, old gentleman," 
muttered Hugh Crombie. 

Ellen at first exhibited but little desire, or, rather, an 
evident reluctance, to accompany her guardian. She 
hung back, while her glance passed almost imperceptibly 
over the faces that gazed so eagerly at her ; but the one 
she sought was not visible among them. She had no 
alternative, and suffered herself to be led from the inn. 

Edward Walcott alone remained behind, the most 
wretched being (at least such was his own opinion) that 
breathed the vital air. He felt a sinking and sickness 
of the heart, and alternately a feverish frenzy, neither 



84 FANSHAWE. 

of which his short and cloudless existence had heretofore 
occasioned him to experience. He was jealous of, he 
knew not whom, and he knew not what. He was un- 
generous enough to believe that Ellen — his pure and 
lovely Ellen — had degraded herself; though from what 
motive, or by whose agency, he could not conjecture. 
When Dr. Melmoth had taken her in charge, Edward 
returned to the apartment where he had spent the even- 
ing. The wine was still upon the table; and, in the 
desperate hope of stupefying his faculties, he unwisely 
swallowed huge successive draughts. The eifect of his 
imprudence was not long in manifesting itself; though 
insensibility, which at another time would have been the 
result, did not now follow. Acting upon his previous 
agitation, the wine seemed to set his blood in a flame ; 
and, for the time being, he was a perfect madman. 

A phrenologist would probably have found the organ 
of destructiveness in strong development, just then, upon 
Edward's cranium; for he certainly manifested an im- 
pulse to break and destroy whatever chanced to be with- 
in his reach. He commenced his operations by upsetting 
the table, and breaking the bottles and glasses. Then, 
seizing a tall heavy chair in each hand, he hurled them 
with prodigious force, — one through the window, and 
the other against a large looking-glass, the most valuable 
article of furniture in Hugh Crombie's inn. The crash 
and clatter of these outrageous proceedings soon brought 
the master, mistress, and maid-servant to the scene of 
action ; but the two latter, at the first sight of Edward's 
wild demeanor and gleaming eyes, retreated with all im- 
aginable expedition. Hugh chose a position behind the 



FANSHAWE. 85 

door, from whence, protruding liis Lead, lie endeavored 
to mollify his inebriated guest. His interference, how- 
ever, hud nearly been productive of most unfortunate 
consequences ; for a massive andiron, with round brazen 
head, whizzed past him, within a hair's-breadth of his 
ear. 

" I might as safely take my chance in a battle," ex- 
claimed Hugh, withdrawing his head, and speaking to a 
man who stood in the passageway. "A little twist of 
his hand to the left would have served my turn as well 
as if I stood in the path of a forty-two pound ball. And 
here comes another broadside," he added, as some other 
article of furniture rattled against the door. 

" Let us return his fire, Hugh," said the person whom 
he addressed, composedly hfting the andiron. ''He is 
in want of ammunition : let us send him back his own." 

The sound of this man's voice produced a most sin- 
gular effect upon Edward. The moment before, his ac- 
tions had been those of a raving maniac ; but, when the 
words struck his ear, he paused, put his hand to his fore- 
head, seemed to recollect himself, and finally advanced 
with a firm and steady step. His countenance was dark 
and angry, but no longer wild. 

" I have found you, villain ! " he said to the angler. 
" It is you who have done this." 

"And, having done it, the wrath of a boy— his drunken 
wrath — will not induce me to deny it," rephed the other, 
scornfully. 

" The boy will require a man's satisfaction," returned 
Edward, " and that speedily." 

" Will you take it now ? " inquired the angler, with a 



Ob FANSHAWE. 

cool, derisive smile, aud almost in a whisper. At the 
same time he produced a brace of pistols, and held them 
towards the young man. 

"Willingly," answered Edward, taking one of the 
weapons. "Choose your distance." 

The angler stepped back a pace; but before their 
deadly intentions, so suddenly conceived, could be exe- 
cuted, Hugh Crombie interposed himself between them. 

"Do you take my best parlor for the cabin of the 
* Black Andrew,' where a pistol-shot was a nightly pas- 
time ? " he inquired of his comrade. " And you, Master 
Edward, with what sort of a face will you walk into the 
chapel to morning prayers, after putting a ball through 
this man's head, or receiving one through your own ? 
Though, in this last case, you will be past praying for, or 
praying either." 

" Stand aside : I will take the risk. Make way, or I 
w^ill put the ball through your own head," exclaimed 
Edward, fiercely : for the interval of rationality that cir- 
cumstances had produced was again giving way to intox- 
ication. 

" You see how it is," said Hugh to his companion, un- 
heard by Edward. " You shall take a shot at me, sooner 
than at the poor lad in his present state. You have done 
him harm enough already, and intend him more. I pro- 
pose," he continued aloud, and with a peculiar glance 
towards the angler, "that this affair be decided to- 
morrow, at nme o'clock, under the old oak, on the bank 
of the stream. In the mean time, I will take charge of 
these popguns, for fear of accidents." 

" Well, mine host, be it as you wish," said his com- 



FANSHAWE. 87 

rade. ''A shot more or less is of little consequence to 
me." He accordingly delivered Lis weapon to Hugh 
Crombie, and walked carelessly away. 

" Come, Master Walcott, the enemy has retreated. 
Victoria ! And now, I see, the sooner I get you to your 
chamber, the better," added he aside ; for the wine was 
at last beginning to produce its legitimate effect, in stu- 
pefying the young man's mental and bodily faculties. 

Hugh Crombie's assistance, though not, perhaps, quite 
indispensable, was certainly very convenient to our un- 
fortunate hero, in the course of the short walk that 
brought him to his chamber. When arrived there, and 
in bed, he was soon locked in a sleep scarcely less deep 
than that of death. 

The weather, during the last hour, had appeared to be 
on the point of changing : indeed, there were, every few 
minutes, most rapid changes. A strong breeze sometimes 
drove the clouds from the brow of heaven, so as to dis- 
close a few of the stars ; but, immediately after, the dark- 
ness would again become Egyptian, and the rain rush like 
a torrent from the sky. 





CHAPTER VL 

About her neck a packet-mail 

Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale. 

Of men that walked when they were dead." 

HUDIBEAS. 




CARCELY a word had passed between Dr. Mel- 
moth and Ellen Laugton, on their way home j 
for, though the former was aware that his duty 
towards his ward would compel him to inquire into the 
motives of her conduct, the tenderness of his heart 
prompted him to defer the scrutiny to the latest moment. 
The same tenderness induced, him to connive at Ellen's 
stealing secretly up to her chamber, unseen by Mrs. Mel- 
moth ; to render which measure practicable, he opened 
the house-door very softly, and stood before his half- 
sleeping spouse (who waited his arrival in the parlor) 
without any previous notice. This act of the doctor's 
benevolence was not destitute of heroism; for he was 
well assured, that, should the affair come to the lady's 
knowledge through any other channel, her vengeance 
would descend not less heavily on him for concealing, 
than on Ellen for perpetrating, the elopement. That she 
had, thus far, no suspicion of the fact, was evident from 



FANSHAWE. 89 

her composure, as well as from the reply to a question, 
wliich, with more thau his usual art, her husband put to 
her respecting the non-appearance of his ward. Mrs. 
Melmoth answered, that Ellen had complained of indis. 
position, and after drinking, by her prescription, a large 
cup of herb-tea, had retired to her chamber early in the 
evening. Thankful that all was yet safe, the doctor laid 
his head upon his pillow ; but, late as was the hour, his 
many anxious thoughts long drove sleep from his eyelids. 
The dimmutiou in the quantity of his natural rest did 
not, however, prevent Dr. Melmoth from rising at his 
usual hour, which at all seasons of the year was an early 
one. He found, on descending to the parlor, that break- 
fast was nearly in readiness ; for the lady of the house 
(and, as a corollary, her servant-girl) was not accus- 
tomed to await the rising of the sun in order to com- 
mence her domestic labors. Ellen Langton, however, 
who had heretofore assimilated her habits to those of 
the family, was this morning invisible, — a circumstance 
imputed by Mrs. Melmoth to her indisposition of the 
preceding evening, and by the doctor, to mortification on 
account of her elopement and its discovery. 

"I think I will step into Ellen's bedchamber," said 
Mrs. Melmoth, " and inquire how she feels herself. The 
morning is delightful after the storm, and the air will 
do her good." 

" Had we not better proceed with our breakfast ? If 
the poor child is sleeping, it were a pity to disturb 
her," observed the doctor; for, besides his sympathy 
with Ellen's feelings, he was reluctant, as if he were 
the guilty one, to meet her face. 



90 FANSHAWE. 

" Well, be it so. And now sit down, doctor ; for the 
hot cakes are cooling fast. I suppose you will say they 
are not so good as those Ellen made yesterday morning. 
I know not how you will bear to part with her, though 
the thing must soon be." 

" It will be a sore trial, doubtless," replied Dr. Mel- 
moth, — " like tearing away a branch that is grafted on 
an old tree. And yet there will be a satisfaction in de- 
livering her safe into her father's hands." 

" A satisfaction for which you may thank me, doctor," 
observed the lady. " If there had been none but you to 
look after the poor thing's doings, she would have been 
enticed away long ere this, for the sake of her money." 

Dr. Melmoth's prudence could scarcely restrain a smile 
at the thought that an elopement, as he had reason to 
believe, had been plotted, and partly carried into execu- 
tion, while Ellen was under the sole care of his lady, and 
had been frustrated only by his own despised agency. 
He was not accustomed, however, — nor was this an 
eligible occasion, — to dispute any of Mrs. Melmoth's 
claims to superior wisdom. 

The breakfast proceeded in silence, or, at least, 
without any conversation material to the tale. At its 
conclusion, Mrs. Melmoth was again meditating on the 
propriety of entering Ellen's chamber ; but she was now 
prevented by an incident that always excited much 
interest both in herself and her husband. 

This was the entrance of the servant, bearing the 
letters and newspaper, with which, once a fortnight, 
the mail-carrier journeyed up the valley. Dr. Melmoth's 
situation at the head of a respectable seminary, and his 



FANSHAWE. 91 

character as a scholar, had procured him an extensive 
correspondence among the learned men of his own coun- 
try; and he had even exchanged epistles with one or 
two of the most distinguished dissenting clergymen of 
Great Britain, But, unless when some fond mother en- 
closed a one-pound note to defray the private expenses 
of her son at college, it was frequently the case, that the 
packets addressed to the doctor were the sole contents 
of the mail-bag. In the present uistance, his letters were 
very numerous, and, to judge from the one he chanced 
first to open, of an unconscionable length. While he 
was engaged in their perusal, Mrs. Melmoth amused her- 
self with the newspaper, — a httle sheet of about twelve 
inches square, which had but one rival in the country. 
Commencing with the title, she labored on through ad- 
vertisements old and new, through poetry lamentably 
deficient in rhythm and rhymes, through essays, the 
ideas of which had been trite since the first week of 
the creation, till she finally arrived at the department 
that, a fortnight before, had contained the latest news 
from all quarteirs. Making such remarks upon these 
items as to her seemed good, the dame's notice was at 
length attracted by an article which her sudden excla- 
mation proved to possess uncommon interest. Casting 
her eye hastily over it, she immediately began to read 
aloud to her husband ; but he, deeply engaged in a long 
and learned letter, instead of listening to what she 
wished to communicate, exerted his own lungs in oppo- 
sition to hers, as is the custom of abstracted men when 
disturbed. The result was as follows : — 

"A brig just arrived in the outer harbor," began Mrs. 



92 FANSHAWE. 

Melmotli, "reports, tliat on the morning of the 25tli 
ult. — " Here the doctor broke in, " Wherefore I am 
compelled to diifer from your exposition of the said pas- 
sage, for those reasons, of the which I have given you a 
taste; provided — " The lady's voice was now almost 
audible, " ship bottom upward, discovered by the name 
on her stern to be the Ellen of — " " and in the same 
opinion are Hooker, Cotton, and divers learned divines 
of a later date." 

The doctor's lungs were deep and strong, and victory 
seemed to incline toward him ; but Mrs. Melmoth now 
made use of a tone whose peculiar shrillness, as long 
experience had taught her husband, augured a mood of 
mind not to be trifled with, 

" On my word, doctor," she exclaimed, " this is most 
unfeeling and unchristian conduct ! Here am I endeav- 
oring to inform you of the death of an old friend, and 
you continue as deaf as a post." 

Dr. Melmoth, who had heard the sound, without 
receiving the sense, of these words, now laid aside the 
letter in despair, and submissively requested to be in- 
formed of her pleasure. 

" There, read for yourself," she replied, handing him 
the paper, and pointing to the passage containing the 
important intelligence, — " read, and then finish your 
letter, if you have a mind." 

He took the paper, unable to conjecture how the 
dame could be so much interested in any part of its 
contents ; but, before he had read many words, he grew 
pale as death. " Good Heavens ! what is this ? " he ex- 
claimed. He then read on, " bein^ the vessel wherein 



FANSHAWE. 93 

that eminent son of New England, John Langton, Esq., 
had taken passage for his native country, after an ab- 
sence of many years." 

" Our poor Ellen, his orphan child ! " said Dr. Mel- 
moth, dropping the paper. "How shall we break the 
intelligence to her ? Alas ! her share of the affliction, 
causes me to forget my own." 

"It is a heavy misfortune, doubtless ; and Ellen will 
grieve as a daughter should," replied Mrs. Melmoth, 
speaking with the good sense of which she had a com- 
petent share. "But she has never known her father; 
and her sorrow must arise from a sense of duty, more 
than from strong affection. I will go and inform her of 
her loss. It is late, and I wonder if she be still asleep." 

" Be cautious, dearest wife," said the doctor. " Ellen 
has strong feelings ; and a sudden shock might be dan- 
gerous." 

" I think I may be trusted. Dr. Melmoth," replied the 
lady, who had a high opinion of her own abilities as a 
comforter, and was not averse to exercise them. 

Her husband, after her departure, sat listlessly turn- 
ing over the letters that yet remained unopened, feeling 
little curiosity, after such melancholy intelligence, re- 
spectmg their contents. But, by the handwriting of the 
direction on one of them, his attention was gradually 
arrested, till he found himself gazing earnestly on those 
strong, firm, regular characters. They were perfectly 
familiar to his eye ; but from what hand they came, he 
could not conjecture. Suddenly, however, the truth 
burst upon him ; and after noticing the date, and read- 
ing a few Hues, he rushed hastily in pursuit of his wife. 



94 FANSHAWE. 

He had arrived at the top of his speed and at the mid- 
dle of the staircase, when his course was arrested by the 
lady whom he sought, who came, with a velocity equal 
to his own, in an opposite direction. The consequence 
was a concussion between the two meeting masses, by 
which Mrs. Melmoth was seated securely on the stairs ; 
while the doctor was only preserved from precipitation 
to the bottom by clinging desperately to the balustrade. 
As soon as the pair discovered that they had sustained 
no material injury by their contact, they began eagerly 
to explain the cause of their mutual haste, without those 
reproaches, which, on the lady's part, would at another 
time have followed such an accident. 

" You have not told her the bad news, I trust ? " cried 
Dr. Melmoth, after each had communicated his and her 
intelligence, without obtaining audience of the other. 

" Would you have me tell it to the bare walls ? " in- 
quired the lady in her shrillest tone. "Have I not just 
informed you that she has gone, fled, eloped? Her 
chamber is empty; and her bed has not been occu- 
pied." 

" Gone ! " repeated the doctor. " And, when her 
father comes to demand his daughter of me, what an- 
swer shall I make?" 

" Now, Heaven defend us from the visits of the dead 
and drowned ! " cried Mrs. Melmoth. " This is a serious 
affair, doctor, but not, I trust, sufficient to raise a ghost." 

" Mr. Langton is yet no ghost," answered he ; " though 
this event will go near to make him one. He was for- 
tunately prevented, after he had made every preparation, 
from taking passage in the vessel that was lost." 



FANSHAWE. 95 

" And where is lie now ? " she inquired. 

" He is in New England. Perhaps he is at this mo- 
ment on his way to us," replied her husband. "His 
letter is dated nearly a fortnight back ; and he expresses 
an intention of being with us in a few days." 

" Well, I thank Heaven for his safety," said Mrs. Mel- 
moth. " But truly the poor gentleman could not have 
chosen a better time to be drowned, nor a worse one to 
come to life, than this. What we shall do, doctor, I 
know not ; but had you locked the doors, and fastened 
the windows, as I advised, the misfortune could not have 
happened." 

" Why, the whole country would have flouted us ! " 
answered the doctor. " Is there a door in all the Prov- 
ince that is barred or bolted, night or day ? Neverthe- 
less, it might have been advisable last night, had it oc- 
curred to me." 

" And why at that time more than at all times ? " she 
inquired. " We had surely no reason to fear this event." 

Dr. Melmoth was silent ; for his worldly wisdom was 
sufficient to deter him from giving his lady the oppor- 
tunity, which she would not fail to use to the utmost, 
of laying the blame of the elopement at his door. He 
now proceeded, with a heavy heart, to Ellen's chamber, 
to satisfy himself with his own eyes of the state of affairs. 
It was deserted too truly; and the wild-flowers with 
which it was the maiden's custom daily to decorate her 
premises were drooping, as if in sorrow for her who had 
placed them there. Mrs. Melmoth, on this second visit, 
discovered on the table a note addressed to her husband, 
and containing a few words of gratitude from Ellen, but 



96 FANSHAWE. 

no explanation of her mysterious flight. The doctor 
gazed long on the tiny letters, which had evidently been 
traced with a trembling hand, and blotted with many 
tears. 

" There is a mystery in this, — a mystery that I can- 
not fathom," he said. "And now I would I knew what 
measures it would be proper to take." 

" Get you on horseback. Dr. Melmoth, and proceed as 
speedily as may be down the valley to the town," said 
the dame, the influence of whose firmer mind was some- 
times, as in the present case, most beneficially exerted 
over his own. "You must not spare for trouble, no, 
nor for danger. Now — 0, if I were a man ! " — 

" 0, that you were ! " murmured the doctor, in a per- 
fectly inaudible voice. "Well — and when I reach the 
town, what then?" 

" As I am a Christian woman, my patience cannot 
endure you ! " exclaimed Mrs. Melmoth. " O, I love 
to see a man with the spirit of a man ! but you — " 
And she turned away in utter scorn. 

"But, dearest wife," remonstrated the husband, who 
was really at a loss how to proceed, and anxious for her 
advice, " your worldly experience is greater than mine, 
and I desire to profit by it. What should be my next 
measure after arriving at the town?" 

Mrs. Melmoth was appeased by the submission with 
which the doctor asked her counsel ; though, if the truth 
must be told, she heartily despised him for needing it. 
She condescended, however, to instruct him in the 
proper method of pursuing the runaway maiden, and 
directed him, before his departure, to put strict inquiries 



FANSHAWE. 97 

to Hugh Crombie respecting any stranger wlio niiglit 
lately have visited his inn. That there would be wisdom 
in this, Dr. Melmoth had his own reasons for believing ; 
and still, without imparting them to his lady, he pro- 
ceeded to do as he had been bid. 

The veracious landlord acknowledged that a stranger 
had spent a night and day at his inn, and was missing 
that morning; but he utterly denied all acquaintance 
with his character, or privity to his purposes. Had 
Mrs. Melmoth, instead of her husband, conducted the 
examination, the result might have been different. As 
the case was, the doctor returned to his dwelling but 
little wiser than he went forth ; and, ordering his steed 
to be saddled, he began a journey of which he knew not 
•what would be the end. 

In the mean time, the intelHgence of Ellen's disap- 
pearance circulated rapidly, and soon sent forth hunters 
more fit to follow the chase than Dr. Melmoth. 





CHAPTER VII. 

"There was racing and chasing o'er Cannobie Lee." 

Walter Scott. 

HEN Edward Walcott awoke the next morning 
from his deep slumber, his first consciousness 
was of a heavy weight upon his mind, the cause 
of which he was unable immediately to recollect. One 
by one, however, by means of the association of ideas, 
the events of the preceding night came back to his 
memory; though those of latest occurrence were dim 
as dreams. But one circumstance was only too well 
remembered, — the discovery of Ellen Langton. By a 
strong effort he next attained to an uncertain recollec- 
tion of a scene of madness and violence, followed, as he 
at first thought, by a duel. A little further reflection, 
however, informed him that this event was yet among 
the things of futurity ; but he could by no means recall 
the appointed time or place. As he had not the slightest 
intention (praiseworthy and prudent as it would unques- 
tionably have been) to give up the chance of avenging 
Ellen's wrongs and his own, he immediately arose, and 
began to dress, meaning to learn from Hugh Crom- 
bie those particulars which his own memory had not 



FANSHAWE. 99 

retained. His chief apprehension was, that the appointed 
time had already elapsed; for the early sunbeams of 
a glorious morning were now peeping into his cham- 
ber. 

More than once, during the progress of dressing, he was 
inclined to believe that the duel had actually taken place, 
and been fatal to him, and that he was now in those 
regions to which, his conscience told him, such an event 
would be likely to send him. This idea resulted from 
his bodily sensations, which were in the highest degree 
uncomfortable. He was tormented by a raging thirst, 
that seemed to have absorbed all the moisture of his 
throat and stomach ; and, in his present agitation, a cup 
of icy water would have been his first wish, had all 
the treasures of earth and sea been at his command. 
His head, too, throbbed almost to bursting; and the 
whirl of his brain at every movement promised little 
accuracy in the aim of his pistol, when he should meet 
the angler. These feelings, together with the deep 
degradation of his mind, made him resolve that no cir- 
cumstances should again draw him into an excess of 
wine. In the mean time, his head was, perhaps, still 
too much confused to allow him fully to realize his 
unpleasant situation. 

Before Edward was prepared to leave his chamber, the 
door was opened by one of the college bed-makers, who, 
perceiving that he was nearly dressed, entered, and 
began to set the apartment in order. There were two 
of these officials pertaining to Harley College; each of 
them being (and, for obvious reasons, this was an in- 
dispensable qualification) a model of perfect ugliness ia 



iUU FANSHAWE. 

her own way. One was a tall, raw-boned, liuge-jointed, 
double-fisted giantess, admirably fitted to sustain the 
part of Glumdalia, in the tragedy of Tom Thumb, Her 
features were as excellent as her form, appearing to have 
been rough-hewn with a broadaxe, and left unpolished. 
The other was a short, squat figure, about two thirds the 
height, and three times the circumference, of ordinary 
females. Her hair was gray, her complexion of a deep 
yellow; and her most remarkable feature was a short 
snub nose, just discernible amid the broad immensity of 
her face. This latter lady was she who now entered 
Edward's chamber. Notwithstanding her deficiency in 
personal attractions, she was rather a favorite of the 
students, being good-natured, anxious for their comfort, 
and, when duly encouraged, very communicative. Ed- 
ward perceived, as soon as she appeared, that she only 
waited his assistance in order to disburden herself of 
some extraordinary information ; and, more from com- 
passion than curiosity, he began to question her. 

" Well, Dolly, what news this morning ? " 

" Why, let me see, — 0, yes ! It had almost slipped 
my memory," replied the bed-maker. "Poor Widow 
Butler died last night, after her long sickness. Poor 
woman ! I remember her forty years ago, or so, — as 
rosy a lass as you could set eyes on." 

" Ah ! has she gone ? " said Edward, recollecting the 
sick woman of the cottage which he had entered with 
Ellen and Eanshawe. " Was she not out of her right 
mind, Dolly?" 

" Yes, this seven years," she answered. " They say 
she came to her senses a bit, when Dr. Melmoth visited 



TANSHAWE. 101 

her yesterday, but was raving inad when she died. Ah, 
that son of hers ! — if he is yet alive. Well, well ! " 

" She had a son, then ? " inquired Edward. 

" Yes, such as he was. The Lord preserve me from 
such a one ! " said Dolly. " It was thought he went off 
with Hugh Crombie, that keeps the tavern now. That 
was fifteen years ago." 

"And have they heard nothing of him since ? " asked 
Edward. 

" Nothing good, — nothing good," said the bed-maker. 
" Stories did travel up the valley now and then; but for 
five years there has been no word of hun. They say 
Merchant Laugton, Ellen's father, met him in foreign 
parts, and would have made a man of him; but there 
was too much of the wicked one in him for that. Well, 
poor woman! I wonder who'll preach her funeral 
sermon." 

" Dr. Melmoth, probably," observed the student. 

" No, no ! The doctor will never finish his journey 
in time. And who knows but his own funeral will be 
the end of it," said Dolly, with a sagacious shake of her 
head. 

" Dr. Melmoth gone a journey ! " repeated Edward. 
" What do you mean ? Eor what purpose ? " 

" For a good purpose enough, I may say," replied she. 
" To search out Miss Ellen, that was run away with last 
night." 

" In the Devil's name, woman, of what are you speak- 
ing ? " shouted Edward, seizing the afl'righted bed-maker 
forcibly by the arm. 
* Poor Dolly had chosen this circuitous metliod of com- 



102 FANSHAWE. 

municating her intelligence, because slie was well aware 
that, if she first told of Ellen's flight, she should find no 
ear for lier account of the Widow Butler's death. She had 
not calculated, however, that the news would produce so 
violent an effect upon her auditor ; and her voice faltered 
as she recounted what she knew of the affair. She had 
hardly concluded, before Edward — who, as she pro- 
ceeded, had been making hasty preparations — rushed 
from his chamber, and took the way towards Hugh Crom- 
bie's inn. He had no difficulty in finding the landlord, 
who had already occupied his accustomed seat, and was 
smoking his accustomed pipe, under the elm-tree. 

"Well, Master Walcott, you have come to take a 
stomach-reliever this morning, I suppose," said Hugh, 
taking the pipe from his mouth. " What shall it be ? — 
a bumper of wine with an egg ? or a glass of smooth, 
old, oily brandy, such as Dame Crombie and I keep for 
our own drinking ? Come, that will do it, I know," 

" No, no ! neither," replied Edward, shuddering in- 
voluntarily at the bare mention of wine and strong drink. 
*' You know well, Hugh Crombie, the errand on which I 
come." 

"Well, perhaps I do," said the landlord. "You 
come to order me to saddle my best horse. You are 
for a ride, this fine morning." 

" True ; and I must learn of you in what direction to 
turn my horse's head," replied Edward Walcott. 

" I understand you," said Hugh, nodding and smiling. 
" And now. Master Edward, I really have taken a strong 
liking to you ; and, if you please to hearken to it, you 
shall have some of my best advice." * 



FANSHAWE. 103 

"Speak," said the young man, expecting to be told 
in what direction to pursue the chase. 

" I advise you, then," continued Hugh Crorabie, in a 
tone in which some real feeling mingled with assumed 
carelessness, — "I advise you to forget that you have 
ever known this girl, that she has ever existed; for she 
is as much lost to you as if she never had been born, or 
as if the grave had covered her. Come, come, man, toss 
off a quart of my old wine, and keep up a merry heart. 
This has been my way in many a heavier sorrow than 
ever you have felt ; and you see I am alive and merry 
yet." But Hugh's merriment had failed him just as he 
was making his boast of it ; for Edward saw a tear in 
the corner of his eye. 

" Forget her ? Never, never ! " said the student, 
while his heart sank within him at the hopelessness of 
pursuit which Hugh's words implied. "I will follow 
her to the ends of the earth." 

" Then so much the worse for you and for my poor 
nag, on whose back you shall be in three minutes," 
rejoined the landlord. "I have spoken to you as I 
would to my own son, if I had such an incumbrance. — 
Here, you ragamuffin ; saddle the gray, and lead him 
round to the door." 

"The gray? I will ride the black," said Edward. 
"I know your best horse as well as you do yourself, 
Hugh." 

" There is no black horse in my stable. I have parted 
with him to an old comrade of mine," answered the land- 
lord, with a wink of acknowledgment to what he saw 
were Edward's suspicions. "The gray is a stout nag. 



104 FAKSHAWE. 

and will carry you a round pace, tliough not so fast as 
to bring you up with them you seek. I reserved him 
for you, and put Mr. Fanshawe oif with the old white, 
on which I travelled hitherward a year or two since." 

"Fanshawe! Has he, then, the start of me?" asked 
Edward. 

" He rode off about twenty minutes ago," replied 
Hugh; "but you will overtake him within ten miles, 
at farthest. But, if mortal man could recover the girl, 
that fellow would do it, even if he had no better nag 
than a broomstick, like the witches of old times." 

"Did he obtain any information from you as to the 
course?" inquired the student. 

" I could give him only this much," said Hugh, point- 
ing down the road in the direction of the town. "My 
old comrade trusts no man further than is needful, and 
I ask no unnecessary questions." 

The hostler now led up to the door the horse which 
Edward was to ride. The young man mounted with all 
expedition; but, as he was about to apply the spurs, 
his thirst, which the bed-maker's intelligence had caused 
him to forget, returned most powerfully upon him. 

"For Heaven's sake, Hugh, a mug of your sharpest 
cider ; and let it be a large one ! " he exclaimed. " My 
tongue rattles in my mouth like — " 

"Like the bones in a dice-box," said the landlord, 
finishing the comparison, and hastening to obey Edward's 
directions. Indeed, he rather exceeded them, by ming- 
ling with the juice of the apple a gill of his old brandy, 
which his own experience told him would at that time 
have a most desirable effect upon the young man's inter- 
nal svsteni. 



FANSHAWE. 105 

" It is powerful stuff, mine host ; and I feel like a new- 
man already," observed Edward, after draining the mug 
to the bottom. 

" He is a fine lad, and sits his horse most gallantly," 
said Hugh Crombie to himself as the student rode off. 
"I heartily wish him success. I wish to Heaven my 
conscience had suffered me to betray the plot before it 
was too late. Well, well, a man must keep his mite of 
honesty." 

The morning was now one of the most bright and 
glorious that ever shone for mortals ; and, under other 
circumstances, Edward's bosom would have been as light, 
and his spirit would have sung as cheerfully, as one of 
the many birds that warbled around him. The raindrops 
of the preceding night hung like glittering diamonds on 
every leaf of every tree, shaken, and rendered more brill- 
iant, by occasional sighs of wind, that removed from the 
traveller the superfluous heat of an unclouded sun. In 
spite of the adventure, so mysterious and vexatious, in 
which he was engaged, Edward's elastic spirit (assisted, 
perhaps, by the brandy he had unwittingly swallowed) 
rose higher as he rode on; and he soon found himself 
endeavoring to accommodate the tune of one of Hugh 
Crombie's ballads to the motion of the horse. Nor did 
this reviving cheerfulness argue anything against his un- 
wavering faith, and pure and fervent love for Ellen Lang- 
ton. A sorrowful and repining disposition is not the 
necessary accompaniment of a " leal and loving heart " ; 
and Edward's spirits were cheered, not by forget fulness, 
but by hope, which would not permit him to doubt of 
the ultimate success of his pursuit. The uncertainty 
5* 



106 FANSHAWE. 

itself, and the probable danger of the expedition, were not 
without their charm to a youthful and adventurous spirit. 
In fact, Edward would not have been altogether satisfied 
to recover the errant damsel, without first doing battle 
in her behalf. 

He had proceeded but a few miles, before he came in 
sight of Fanshawe, who had been accommodated by the 
landlord with a horse much inferior to his own. The 
speed to which he had been put had almost exhausted 
the poor animal, whose best pace was now but little 
beyond a walk. Edward drew his bridle as he came up 
with Eanshawe. 

" I have been anxious to apologize," he said to him, 
" for the hasty and unjust expressions of which I made 
use last evening. May I hope, that in consideration of 
my mental distraction, and the causes of it, you will for- 
get what has passed ? " 

" I had already forgotten it," replied Eanshawe, freely 
ofTering his hand. " I saw your disturbed state of feel- 
ing, and it would have been unjust both to you and to 
myself to remember the errors it occasioned." 

"A wild expedition this," observed Edward, after 
shaking warmly the offered hand. "Unless we obtain 
some further information at the town, we shall hardly 
know which way to continue the pursuit." 

" "We can scarcely fail, I think, of lighting upon some 
trace of them," said Eanshawe. " Their flight must have 
commenced after the storm subsided, which would give 
them but a few hours the start of us. May I beg," he 
continued, noticing the superior condition of his rival's 
Iiorse, " that you will not attempt to accommodate your 
pace to mine ? " 



FANSHAWE. 107 

Edward bowed, and rode on, wondering at tte cliange 
which a few months had wrought in Fanshawe's charac- 
ter. On this occasion, especially, the energy of his mind 
had communicated itself to his frame. The color was 
strong and high in his cheek ; and his whole appearance 
was that of a gallant and manly youth, whom a lady 
might love, or a foe might fear. Edward had not been 
so slow as his mistress in discovering the student's affec- 
tion; and he could not but acknowledge in his heart 
that he was a rival not to be despised, and might yet 
be a successful one, if, by his means, Ellen Langton were 
restored to her friends. This consideration caused him 
to spur forward with increased ardor ; but all his speed 
could not divest him of the idea that Eanshawe would 
finally overtake him, and attain the object of their mutual 
pursuit. There was certainly no apparent ground for 
this imagination; for every step of his horse increased 
the advantage which Edward had gained, and he soon 
lost sight of his rival. 

Shortly after overtaking Eanshawe, the young man 
passed the lonely cottage formerly the residence of the 
Widow Butler, who now lay dead within. He was at 
first inchned to alight, and make inquiries respecting the 
fugitives ; for he observed through the windows the 
faces of several persons, whom curiosity, or some better 
feeling, had led to the house of mourning. Recollecting, 
however, that this portion of the road must have been 
passed by the angler and Ellen at too early an hour to 
attract notice, he forbore to waste time by a fruitless 
delay. 

Edward proceeded on his journey, meeting with no 



108 FANSHAWE. 

other noticeable event, till, arriving at the summit of a 
hill, he beheld, a few hundred yards before him, the Rev. 
Dr. Melmoth. The worthy president was toiling onward 
at a rate unexampled in the history either of himself or 
his steed ; the excellence of the latter consisting in sure- 
footedness rather than rapidity. The rider looked round, 
seemingly in some apprehension at the sound of hoof- 
tramps behind him, but was unable to conceal his satis- 
faction on recognizing Edward Walcott. 

In the whole course of his life. Dr. Melmoth had never 
been placed in circumstances so embarrassing as the 
present. He was altogether a cliild in the ways of the 
world, having spent his youth and eai'ly manhood in ab- 
stracted study, and'his maturity in the solitude of these 
hills. The expedition, therefore, on which fate had now 
thrust him, was an entire deviation from the quiet path- 
way of all his former years ; and he felt like one who 
sets forth over the broad ocean without chart or com- 
pass. The affair would undoubtedly have been perplex- 
ing to a man of far more experience than he ; but the 
doctor pictured to himself a thousand difficulties and 
dangers, which, except in his imagination, had no exist- 
ence.. The perturbation of his spirit had compelled him, 
more than once since his departure, to regret that he 
had not invited Mrs. Melmoth to a share in the adven- 
ture ; this being an occasion where her firmness, decision, 
and confident sagacity — which made her a sort of 
domestic hedgehog — would have been peculiarly appro- 
priate. In the absence of such a counsellor, even Ed- 
ward Walcott — young as he was, and indiscreet as the 
doctor thouo-ht him — was a substitute not to be de- 



FANSHAWE. 109 

spised; and it was singular and rather ludicrous to 
observe how the gray -haired man unconsciously became 
as a child to the beardless youth. He addressed Edward 
with an assumption of dignity, through which his pleas- 
ure at the meeting was very obvious. 

" Young gentleman, this is not well," he said. " By 
what authority have you absented yourself from the walls 
of Alma Mater during term-time ? " 

" I conceived that it was unnecessary to ask leave at 
such a conjuncture, and when the head of the institution 
was himself in the saddle," replied Edward. 

" It was a fault, it was a fault," said Dr. Melmoth, 
shaking his head ; " but, in consideration of the motive, 
I may pass it over. And now, ray dear Edward, I ad- 
vise that we continue our journey together, as your 
youth and inexperience will stand in need of the wisdom 
of my gray head. Nay, I pray you lay not the lash to 
your steed. You have ridden fast and far ; and a slower 
pace is requisite for a season." 

And, in order to keep up with his young companion, 
the doctor smote his own gray nag ; which unhappy 
beast, wondering what strange concatenation of events 
had procured him such treatment, endeavored to obey 
his master's wishes. Edward had sufficient compassion 
for Dr. Melmoth (especially as his own horse now exhib- 
ited signs of weariness) to moderate his pace to one 
attainable by the former. 

"Alas, youth ! these are strange times," observed the 
president, " when a doctor of divinity and an under- 
graduate set forth, like a knight-errant and his squire, in 
search of a stray damsel. Mcthinks I am an epitome of 



110 PANSHAWE. 

the church militant, or a new species of polemical divin- 
ity. Pray Heaven, however, there be no encounter in 
store for us ; for I utterly forgot to provide myself with 
weapons." 

"I took some thought for that matter, reverend 
knight," replied Edward, whose imagination was highly 
tickled by Dr. Melmoth's chivalrous comparison. 

" Ay, 1 see that you have girded on a sword,'' said the 
divine. " But wherewith shall 1 defend myself, my hand 
being empty, except of this golden-headed staff, the gift 
of Mr. Langton ? " 

" One of these, if you will accept it," answered Ed- 
ward, exhibiting a brace of pistols, " will serve to begin 
the conflict, before you join the battle hand to hand." 

" Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling with that 
deadly instrument, since I know not accurately from 
which end proceeds the bullet," said Dr. Melmoth. 
"But were it not better, seeing we are so well pro- 
vided with artillery, to betake oarselves, in the event 
of an encounter, to some stone-wall or other place of 
strength ? " 

" If I may presume to advise," said the squire, " you, 
as being most valiant and experienced, should ride for- 
ward, lance in hand (your long staff serving for a lance), 
while I annoy the enemy from afar." 

" Like Teucer behind the shield of Ajax," interrupted 
Dr. Melmoth, " or David with his stone and sling. No, 
no, young man ! I have left unfinished in my study a 
learned treatise, important not only to the present age, 
but to posterity, for whose sakes I must take heed to my 
safety. — But, lo ! who ride yonder ? " he exclaimed, in 



FANSHAWE. Ill 

manifest alarm, pointing to some horsemen upon the 
brow of a hill at a short distance before them. 

"Fear not, gallant leader," said Edward IValcott, who 
had already discovered the objects of the doctor's terror. 
"They are men of peace, as we shall shortly see. The 
foremost is somewhere near your own years, and rides like 
a grave, substantial citizen, — though what he does here, 
I know not. Behind came two servants, men likewise of 
sober age and pacific appearance." 

" Truly your eyes are better than mine own. Of a 
verity, you are in the right," acquiesced Dr. Melmoth, 
recovering his usual quantum of intrepidity. " We will 
ride forward courageously, as those who, in a just cause, 
fear neither death nor bonds." 

The reverend knight- errant and his squire, at the time 
of discovering the three horsemen, were within a very 
short distance of the town, which was, however, concealed 
from their view by the hill, that the strangers were de- 
scending. The road from Harley College, through almost 
its whole extent, had been rough and wild, and the coun- 
try thin of population ; but now, standing frequent, amid 
fertile fields on each side of the way, were neat little 
cottages, from which groups of wliite-headed children 
rushed forth to gaze upon the travellers. The three 
strangers, as well as the doctor and Edward, were sur- 
rounded, as they approached each other, by a crowd of 
this kind, plying their little bare legs most pertinaciously 
in order to keep pace with the horses. 

As Edward gained a nearer view of the foremost rider, 
his grave aspect and stately demeanor struck him with 
involuntary respect. There were deep lines of thought 



112 FANSHAWE. 

across Lis brow ; and his calm yet bright gray eye be- 
tokened a steadfast soul. There was also an air of con- 
scious importance, even in the manner in which the stran- 
ger sat his horse, which a man's good opinion of himself, 
unassisted by the concurrence of the world in general, 
seldom bestows. The two servants rode at a respectable 
distance in the rear ; and the heavy portmanteaus at their 
backs intimated that the party had journeyed from afar. 
Dr. Melmoth endeavored to assume the dignity that 
became him as the head of Harley College ; and with a 
gentle stroke of his staff upon his wearied steed and a 
grave nod to the principal stranger, was about to com- 
mence the ascent of the hill at the foot of which they 
were. The gentleman, however, made a halt. 

"Dr. Melmoth, am I so fortunate as to meet you?" 
he exclaimed in accents expressive of as much surprise 
and pleasure as were consistent with his staid demeanor. 
" Have you, then, forgotten your old friend ? " • 

" Mr. Langton ! Can it be ? " said the doctor, after 
looking him in the face a moment. " Yes, it is my old 
friend indeed : welcome, welcome ! though you come at 
an unfortunate time." 

" What say you ?" How is my child? Ellen, I trust, 
is well ? " cried Mr. Langton, a father's anxiety over- 
coming the coldness and reserve that were natural to 
him, or that long habit had made a second nature. 

"She is well in health. She was so, at least, last 
night," replied Dr. Melmoth, unable to meet the eye of 
his friend. " But — but I have been a careless shep- 
herd ; and the lamb has strayed from the fold while I 
slept." 



FANSHAWE. 113 

Edward Walcott, who was a deeply interested observer 
of this scene, had anticipated that a burst of passionate 
grief would follow the disclosure. He was, however, al- 
together mistaken. There was a momentary convulsion 
of Mr. Langton's strong features, as quick to come and 
go as a flash of lightning ; and then his countenance was 
as composed — though, perhaps, a Httle sterner — as 
before. He seemed about to inquire into the particulars 
of what so nearly concerned him, but changed his pur- 
pose on observmg the crowd of children, who, with one 
or two of their parents, were endeavoring to catch the 
words that passed between the doctor and himself. 

" I will turn back with you to the village," he said in 
a steady voice ; " and at your leisure I shall desire to 
hear the particulars of this unfortunate affair." 

He wheeled his horse accordingly, and, side by side 
with Dr. Melmoth, begali to ascend the hill. On reach- 
ing the summit, the little country town lay before them, 
presenting a cheerful and busy spectacle. It consisted 
of one long, regular street, extending parallel to, and at 
a short distance from, the river ; which here, enlarged by 
a junction with another stream, became navigable, not 
indeed for vessels of burden, but for rafts of lumber and 
boats of considerable size. The houses, with peaked 
roofs and jutting stories, stood at wide intervals along 
the street ; and the commercial character of the place 
was manifested by the shop door and windows, that oc- 
cupied the front of almost every dwelling. One or two 
mansions, however, surrounded by trees, and standing 
back at a haughty distance from the road, were evidently 
the abodes of the aristocracy of the village. It was not 



114 FANSHAWE. 

difficult to distinguish the owners of these — self-impor- 
tant personages, with canes and well-powdered periwigs 
— among the crowd of meaner men who bestowed their 
attention upon Dr. Melmoth and his friend as they rode 
by. The town being the nearest mart of a large extent 
of back country, there were many rough farmers and 
woodsmen, to whom the cavalcade was an object of curi- 
osity and admiration. The former feeling, indeed, was 
general throughout the village. The shop-keepers left 
their customers, and looked forth from the doors ; the 
female portion of the community thrust their heads from 
the windows ; and the people in the street formed a lane 
through which, with all eyes concentrated upon them, 
the party rode onward to the tavern. The general apti- 
tude that pervades the populace of a small country town 
to meddle with affairs not legitimately concerning them 
was increased, on this occasion, by the sudden return of 
Mr. Langton after passing through the village. Many 
conjectures were afloat respecting the cause of this retro- 
grade movement; and, by degrees, something like the 
truth, though much distorted, spread generally among 
the crowd, communicated, probably, from Mr. Langton' s 
servants. Edward "Walcott, incensed at the uncourteous 
curiosity of which he, as well as his companions, was the 
object, felt a frequent impulse (though, fortunately for 
himself, resisted) to make use of his riding-switch in 
clearing a passage. 

On arriving at the tavern, Dr. Melmoth recounted to 
his friend the little he knew beyond the bare fact of 
Ellen's disappearance. Had Edward Walcott been called 
to their conference, he might, by disclosmg the adventure 



FANSHAWE. 115 

of the angler, have thrown a portion of light upon the 
affair; but, since his first introduction, the cold and 
stately merchant had honored him with no sort of notice. 

Edward, on his part, was not well pleased at the sud- 
den appearance of Ellen's father, and was little incHned 
to co-operate in any measures that he might adopt for 
her recovery. It was his wish to pursue the chase on 
his own responsibility, and as his own wisdom dictated : 
he chose to be an independent ally, rather than a subor- 
dinate assistant. But, as a step preliminary to his pro- 
ceedings of every other kind, he found it absolutely 
necessary, having journeyed far, and fasting, to call upon 
the landlord for a supply of food. The viands that were 
set before him were homely but abundant; nor were 
Edward's griefs and perplexities so absorbing as to over- 
come the appetite of youth and health. 

Dr. Melmoth and Mr. Langton, after a short private 
conversation, had summoned the landlord, in the hope of 
obtaining some clew to the development of the mystery. 
But no young lady, nor any stranger answering to the 
description the doctor had received from Hugh Crombie 
(which was indeed a false one), had been seen to pass 
through the village since daybreak. Here, therefore, the 
friends were entirely at a loss in what direction to con- 
tinue the pursuit. The village was the focus of severol 
roads, diverging to widely distant portions of the country; 
and which of these the fugitives had taken, it was impos- 
sible to determine. One point, however, might be con- 
sidered certain, — that the village was the first stage of 
their flight ; for it commanded the only outlet from the 
valley, except a rugged path among the hills, utterly im- 



116 FANS H AWE. 

passable by horse. In tliis dilemma, expresses were sent 
by each of the different roads ; and poor Ellen's impru- 
dence — the tale nowise decreasing as it rolled along — 
became known to a wide extent of country. Having 
thus done everything in his power to recover his daugh- 
ter, the merchant exhibited a composure which Dr. Mel- 
moth admired, but could not equal. His own mind, 
however, was in a far more comfortable state than when 
the responsibility of the pursuit had rested upon himself. 

Edward Walcott, in the mean time, had employed but 
a very few moments in satisfying his hunger ; after which 
his active intellect alternately formed and relinquished a 
thousand plans for the recovery of Ellen. Fanshawe's 
observation, that her flight must have commenced after 
the subsiding of the storm, recurred to him. On inquiry, 
he was informed that the violence of the rain had con- 
tinued, with a few momentary intermissions, till near day- 
light. The fugitives must, therefore, have passed through 
the village long after its inhabitants were abroad; and 
how, without the gift of invisibility, they had contrived 
to elude notice, Edward could not conceive. 

" Eifty years ago," thought Edward, " my sweet Ellen 
would have been deemed a witch for this trackless jour- 
ney. Truly 1 could wish I were a wizard, that I might 
bestride a broomstick, and follow her." 

While the young man, involved in these perplexing 
thoughts, looked forth from the open window of the apart- 
ment, his attention was drawn to an individual, evidently 
of a different, though not of a higher, class than the 
countrymen among whom he stood. Edward now rec- 
ollected that he had noticed his rough dark face among 



FANSHAWE. 117 

the most earnest of those who had watched the arrival of 
tlie party. He had then taken him for one of the boat- 
men, of whom there were many in the village, and who 
had much of a sailor-like dress and appearance. A sec- 
ond and more attentive observation, however, convinced 
Edward that this man's life had not been spent upon fresh 
water ; and, had any stronger evidence than the nameless 
marks which the ocean impresses upon its sons been ne- 
cessary, it would have been found in his mode of locomo- 
tion. Wbile Edward was observing him, he beat slowly 
up to one of Mr. Langton's servants who was standing 
near the door of the inn. He seemed to question the 
man with affected carelessness ; but his countenance was 
dark and perplexed when he turned to mingle again with 
the crowd. Edward lost no time in ascertaining from the 
servant the nature of his inquiries. They had related to 
the elopement of Mr. Langton's daughter, which was, 
indeed, the prevailing, if not the sole, subject of conver- 
sation in the viUage. 

The grounds for supposing that this man was in any 
way connected with the angler were, perhaps, very slight; 
yet, in the perplexity of the whole affair, they induced 
Edward to resolve to get at the heart of his mystery. To 
attain this end, he took the most direct method, — by ap- 
plying to the man himself. 

He had now retired apart from the throng and bustle 
of the village, and was seated upon a condemned boat, 
that was drawn up to rot upon the banks of the river. 
His arms were folded, and his hat drawn over his brows. 
The lower part of his face, which alone was visible, evinced 
gloom and depression, as did also the deep sighs, which. 



118 FANSHAWE. 

because lie tliou^lit no one was near him, lie did not 
attempt to restrain, 

" Friend, 1 must speak with you," said Edward Wal- 
cott, laying his hand upon his shoulder, after contem- 
plating the man a moment, himself unseen. 

He started at once from his abstraction and his seat, 
apparently expecting violence, and prepared to resist it ; 
but, perceiving the youthful and solitary intruder upon 
liis privacy, he composed his features with much quick- 
ness. 

" What would you with me ? " he asked. 

" They tarry long, — or you have kept a careless 
watch," said Edward, speaking at a venture. 

For a moment, there seemed a probability of obtain- 
ing such a reply to this observation as the youth had 
intended to elicit. If any trust could be put in the 
language of the stranger's countenance, a set of words 
different from those to which he subsequently gave utter- 
ance had risen to his lips. But he seemed naturally slow 
of speech ; and this defect was now, as is frequently the 
case, advantageous in giving him space for reflection. 

"Look you, youngster : crack no jokes on me," he at 
length said, contemptuously. " Away ! back whence you 
came, or — " And he slightly waved a small rattan that 
he held in his right hand. 

Edward's eyes sparkled, and his color rose. "You 
must change this tone, fellow, and that speedily," he ob- 
served. " I order you to lower your hand, and answer 
the questions that I shall put to you." 

The man gazed dubiously at him, but fiually adopted 
a more conciliatory mode of speech. 



FANSIIAWE. 119 

" Well, master ; and what is your business with me ? " 
he inquired. " 1 am a boatman out of employ. Any 
commands in my line ? " 

" Psliaw ! I know you, my good friend, and you can- 
not deceive me," replied Edward Walcott. "We are 
private here," he continued, looking around. " I have 
uo desire or intention to do you harm ; and, if you 
act according to my directions, you shall have no cause 
to repent it." 

"And what if I refuse to put myself under your 
orders?" inquired the man. "You are but a yoiing 
captain for such an old hulk as mine," 

" The ill consequences of a refusal would all be on 
your own side," replied Edward. " I shall, in that case, 
deliver you up to justice : if I have not the means of 
capturing you myself," he continued, observing the sea- 
man's eye to wander rather scornfully over his youthful 
and slender figure, "there are hundreds within call 
whom it will be in vain to resist. Besides, it requires 
little strength to use this," he added, laying his hand on 
a pistol. 

"If that were all, I could suit you there, my lad," 
muttered the stranger. He continued aloud, "Well, 
what is your will with me? D d ungenteel treat- 
ment this ! But put your questions ; and, to oblige you, 
I may answer them, — if so be that I know anything of 
the matter." 

"You will do wisely," observed the young man. 
"And now to business. What reason have you to 
suppose that tlie persons for whom you watch are not 
already beyond the village?" 



120 PANSHAWE. 

The seaman paused long before lie answered, and 
gazed earnestly at Edward, apparently endeavoring to 
ascertain from his countenance the amount of his knowl- 
edge. This he probably overrated, but, nevertheless, 
hazarded a falsehood. 

" I doubt not they passed before midnight," he said. 
" I warrant you they are many a league towards the sea- 
coast, ere this." 

" You have kept watch, then, since midnight ? " asked 
Edward. 

" Ay, that have I ! And a dark and rough one it 
was," answered the stranger. 

"And you are certain, that, if they passed at all, it 
must have been before that hour ? " 

" I kept my walk across the road till the village was 
all astir," said the seaman. " They could not have 
missed me. So, you see, your best way is to give chase ; 
for they have a long start of you, and you have no time 
to lose." 

" Your information is sufficient, my good friend," said 
Edward, with a smile. " I have reason to know that 
they did not commence their flight before midnight. 
You have made it evident that they have not passed 
since : ergo, they have not passed at all, — an indis- 
putable syllogism. And now will I retrace my foot- 
steps." 

■ " Stay, young man," said the stranger, placing himself 
full in Edward's way as he was about to hasten to the 
inn. " You have drawn me in to betray my comrade ; 
but, before you leave this place, you must answer a ques- 
tion or two of mine. Do you mean to take the law with 



FANSHAWE. 121 

you ? or will you right your wrongs, if you have any, 
with your own right hand ? " 

"It is my intention to take the latter method. But, 
if I choose the former, what then ? " demanded Ed^ 
ward. 

" Nay, nothing : only you or I might not have gone 
hence alive," replied the stranger. " But as you say he 
shall have fair play — " 

"On my word, friend," interrupted the young man, 
" I fear your intelligence has come too late to do either 
good or harm. Look towards the inn : my companions 
are getting to horse, and, my life on it, they know 
whither to ride." 

So saying, he hastened away, followed by the stranger. 
It was indeed evident that news of some kind or other 
had reached the village. The people were gathered in 
groups, conversing eagerly; and the pale cheeks, up- 
lifted eyebrows, and outspread hands of some of the 
female sex filled Edward's mind with undefined but 
intolerable apprehensions. He forced his way to Dr. 
Melmoth, who had just mounted, and, seizing his bri- 
dle, peremptorily demanded if he knew aught of Ellen 
Langton. 







CHAPTER VIII. 

" Full many a miserable year hath passed : 
She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead ; 
And many a change her varied life hath known ; 
But her heart none." Matukin. 




INCE her iuterview witli the angler, which was 
interrupted by the appearance of Eanshawe,. 
Ellen Langton's hitherto calm and peaceful 
mind had been in a state of insufferable doubt and dis- 
may. She was imperatively called upon — at least, she 
so conceived — to break through the rules which nature 
and education impose upon her sex, to quit the protec- 
tion of those whose desire for her welfare was true and 
strong, and to trust herself, for what purpose she scarcely 
knew, to a stranger, from whom the instinctive purity 
of her mind would involuntarily have shrunk, under 
whatever circumstances she had met him. The letter 
which she had received from the hands of the angler 
had seemed to her inexperience to prove beyond a doubt 
that the bearer was the friend of her father, and author- 
ized by him, if her duty and affection were stronger than 
her fears, to guide her to his retreat. The letter spoke 
vaguely of losses and misfortunes, and of a necessity for 



FANSHAWE. 123 

concealment on her father's part, and secrecy on hers; 
and, to the credit of Ellen's not very romantic under- 
standing, it must be acknowledged that the mystery of 
the plot had nearly prevented its success. She did not, 
indeed, doubt that the letter was from her father's hand ; 
for every line and stroke, and even many of its phrases, 
were familiar to her. Her apprehension was, that his 
misfortunes, of what nature soever they were, had af- 
fected his intellect, and that, under such an influence, he 
had commanded her to take a step which nothing less 
than such a command could justify. Ellen did not, how- 
ever, remain long in this opinion; for when she repe- 
rused the letter, and considered the firm, regular char- 
acters, and the style, — calm and cold, even in requesting 
such a sacrifice, — she felt that there was nothing like 
insanity here. In fine, she came gradually to the belief 
that there were strong reasons, though incomprehensible 
by her, for the secrecy that her father had enjoined. 

Having arrived at this conviction, her decision lay 
plain before her. Her affection for Mr. Langton was 
not, indeed, — nor was it possible, — so strong as that 
she would have felt for a parent who had watched over 
her from her infancy. Neither was the conception she 
had unavoidably formed of his character such as to 
promise that in him she would find an equivalent for all 
she must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle nature 
and loving heart, which otherwise w^ould have rejoiced 
in a new object of aifection, now shrank with some- 
thing like dread from the idea of meeting her father, — 
stately, cold, and stern as she could not but imagine 
him. A sense of duty was therefore Ellen's only sup- 



124 FANSHAWE. 

port in resolving to tread tlie dark path that lay before 
her. 

Had there been any person of her own sex in whom 
Ellen felt confidence, there is Uttle doubt that she would 
so far have disobeyed her father's letter as to communi- 
cate its contents, and take counsel as to her proceedings. 
But Mrs. Melmoth was the only female — excepting, in- 
deed, the maid-servant — to whom it was possible to 
make the communication; and, though Ellen at first 
thought of such a step, her timidity, and her knowledge 
of the lady's character, did not permit her to venture 
upon it. She next reviewed her acquaintances of the 
other sex ; and Dr. Melmoth first presented himself, as 
in every respect but one an unexceptionable confidant. 
But the single exception was equivalent to many. The 
maiden, with the highest opinion of the doctor's learning 
and talents, had sufficient penetration to know, that, in 
the ways of the world, she was herself the better skilled 
of the two. Eor a moment she thought of Edward Wal- 
cott ; but he was light and wild, and, which her delicacy 
made an insurmountable objection, there was an untold 
love between them. Her thoughts finally centred on 
Fanshawe. In his judgment, young and inexperienced 
though he was, she would have placed a firm trust ; and 
his zeal, from whatever cause it arose, she could not 
doubt. 

If, in the short time allowed her for reflection, an op- 
portunity had occurred for consulting him, she would, 
in all probability, have taken advantage of it. But the 
terms on which they had parted the preceding evening 
had afforded him no reason to hope for her confidence ; 



FANSHAWE. 125 

and he felt that there were others who had a better right 
to it than himself. He did not, therefore, throw himself 
ill her way ; and poor Ellen was consequently left with- 
out an adviser. 

The determination that resulted from her own unas- 
sisted wisdom has been seen. When discovered by Dr. 
Melmoth at Hugh Crombie's inn, she was wholly pre- 
pared for flight, and, but for the intervention of the 
storm, would, ere then, have been far away. 

The firmness of resolve that had impelled a timid 
maiden upon such a step was not likely to be broken 
by one defeat; and Ellen, accordingly, confident that 
the stranger would make a second attempt, determined 
that no effort on her part should be wanting to its suc- 
cess. On reaching her chamber, therefore, instead of 
retiring to rest (of which, from her sleepless thoughts 
of the preceding night, she stood greatly in need), she 
sat watching for the abatement of the storm. Her medi- 
tations were now calmer than at any time since her first 
meeting with the angler. She felt as if her fate was 
decided. The stain had fallen upon her reputation : she 
was no longer the same pure being in the opinion of 
those whose approbation she most valued. 

One obstacle to her flight — and, to a woman's mind, 
a most powerful one — had thus been removed. Dark 
and intricate as was the way, it ft^as easier now to pro- 
ceed than to pause; and her desperate and forlorn situa- 
tion gave her a strength which hitherto she had not felt. 

At every cessation in the torrent of rain that beat 
against the house, Ellen flew to the window, expecting 
to see the stranger form beneath it. But the clouds 



126 PANS H AWE. 

would again thicken, and the storm recommence with its 
former violence ; and she began to fear that the approach 
of morning would compel her to meet the now dreaded 
face of Dr. Melmoth. At length, however, a strong and 
steady wind, supplying the place of the fitful gusts of 
the preceding part of the night, broke and scattered the 
clouds from the broad expanse of the sky. The moon, 
commencing her late voyage not long before the sun, 
was now visible, setting forth like a lonely ship from the 
dark line of the horizon, and touching at many a little 
silver cloud the islands of that aerial deep. Ellen felt 
that now the time was come ; and, with a calmness won- 
derful to herself, she prepared for her final departure. 

She had not long to wait, ere she saw between the 
vacancies of the trees the angler, advancing along the 
shady avenue that led to the principal entrance of Dr. 
Melmoth's dwelling. He had no need to summon her 
either by word or signal ; for she had descended, emerged 
from the door, and stood before him, while he was yet at 
some distance from the house. 

"You have watched well," he observed in a low, 
strange tone. " As saith the Scripture, ' Many daugh- 
ters have done virtuously ; but thou excellest them all. ' " 

He took her arm ; and they hastened down the ave- 
nue. Then, leaving Hugh Crombie's inn on their right, 
they found its master in a spot so shaded that the moon- 
beams could not enlighten it. He held by the bridle 
two horses, one of which the angler assisted Ellen to 
mount. Then turning to the landlord, he pressed a purse 
into his hand ; but Hugh drew back, and it fell to the 
ground. 



FANSHAWE. 127 

" No ! this would not have tempted me ; nor will it 
reward me," he said. " If you have gold to spare, there 
are some that need it more than I." 

" I understand you, mine host. I shall take thought 
for them ; and enough will remain for you and me," re- 
plied his comrade. ''I have seen the day when such 
a purse would not have slipped between your fingers. 
Well, be it so. And now, Hugh, my old friend, a shake 
of your hand ; for we are seeing our last of each other." 

" Pray Heaven it be so ! though I wish you no ill," 
said the landlord, giving his hand. 

He then seemed about to approach Ellen, who had been 
unable to distinguish the words of this brief conversa- 
tion ; but his comrade prevented him. " There is no time 
to lose," he observed. " The moon is growing pale 
already, and we should have been many a mile beyond the 
valley ere this." He mounted as he spoke ; and, guiding 
Ellen's rein till they reached the road, they dashed away. 

It was now that she felt herself completely in his 
power ; and with that consciousness there came a sud- 
den change of feeling, and an altered view of her con- 
duct. A thousand reasons forced themselves upon her 
mind, seeming to prove that she had been deceived ; 
while the motives, so powerful with her but a moment 
before, had either vanished irom her memory, or lost 
all their efficacy. Her comBauion. who fjazed search- 
ingly into her face, where the moonlight, coming down 
between the pines, allowed him to read its expres- 
sion, probably discerned somewhat of the state of her 
thoughts. 

" Do you repent so soon ? " he inquired. "We have 



128 FANSHAWE. 

a weary way before us. Eaint not ere we have well 
entered upon it." 

" I have left dear friends behind me, and am going I 
know not whither/' replied Ellen, tremblingly. 

"You have a faithful guide/' he observed, turning 
away his head, and speaking in the tone of one who 
endeavors to smother a laugh. 

Ellen had no heart to continue the conversation ; and 
they rode on in silence, and through a wild and gloomy 
scene. The wind roared heavily through the forest, and 
the trees shed their raindrops upon the travellers. The 
road, at all times rough, was now broken into deep gul- 
lies, through whicli streams went murmuring down to 
mingle with the river. The pale moonlight combined 
with the gray of the morning to give a ghastly and 
unsubstantial appearance to every object. 

The difficulties of the road had been so much increased 
by tlie storm, that the purple eastern clouds gave notice 
of the near approach of the sun just as the travellers 
reached the little lonesome cottage which Ellen remem- 
bered to have visited several months before. On arriv- 
ing opposite to it, her companion checked his horse, and 
gazed with a wild earnestness at the wretched habitation. 
Then, stifling a groan that would not altogether be re- 
pressed, he was about to pass on ; but at that moment 
the cottage-door opened, and a woman, whose sour, un- 
pleasant countenance Ellen recognized, came hastily forth. 
She seemed not to heed the travellers; but the angler, 
his voice thrilling and quivering with indescribable emo- 
tion, addressed her. 

" Woman, whither do you go ? " he inquired. 



FANSHAWE. 129 

Slie started, but, after a momentary pause, replied, 
" There is one within at the point of death. She strug- 
gles fearfully; and I cannot endure to watch alone by 
her bedside. If you arc Christians, come in with me." 

Ellen's companion leaped hastily from hfs horse, as- 
sisted her also to dismount, and followed the woman into 
the cottage, having first thrown the bridles of the horses 
carelessly over the branch of a tree. Ellen trembled at 
the awful scene she would be compelled to witness ; but, 
when death was so near at hand, it was more terrible to 
stand alone in the dim morning light than even to watch 
the parting of soul and body. She therefore entered the 
cottage. 

Her guide, his face muffled in his cloak, had taken his 
stand at a distance from the death-bed, in a part of the 
room which neither the increasing daylight nor the dim 
rays of a solitary lamp had yet enlightened. At Ellen's 
entrance, the dying woman lay still, and apparently calm, 
except that a plaintive, half-articulate sound occasionally 
wandered through her lips. 

" Hush ! Eor mercy's sake, silence ! " whispered the 
other woman to the strangers. " There is good hope 
now that she will die a peaceable death ; but, if she is 
disturbed, the boldest of us will not dare to stand by her 
bedside." 

The whisper by which her sister endeavored to pre- 
serve quiet perhaps reached the ears of the dying female ; 
for she now raised herself in bed, slowly, but with a 
strength superior to what her situation promised. Her 
face was gliastly and wild, from long ilhiess, approaching 
death, and disturbed intellect ; and a disembodied spirit 
6* I 



130 FANSHAWE. 

could scarcely be a more fearful object than one whose 
soul was just struggling forth. Her sister, approaching 
with the soft and stealing step appropriate to the cham- 
ber of sickness and death, attempted to replace the cov- 
ering around her, and to compose her again upon the 
pillow. "Lie down and sleep, sister," she said; "and, 
when the day breaks, I will waken you. Methinks your 
breath comes freer already. A little more slumber, and 
to-morrow you will be well." 

" My illness is gone : I am well," said the dying 
woman, gasping for breath. " I wander where the fresh 
breeze comes sweetly over my face ; but a close and 
stifled air has choked my lungs." 

" Yet a little while, and you will no longer draw your 
breath in pain," observed her sister, again replacing the 
bedclothes, which she continued to throw off. 

"My husband is with me," murmured the widow. 
"He walks by my side, and speaks to me as in old 
times ; but his words come faintly on my ear. Cheer 
me and comfort me, my husband ; for there is a terror 
in those dim, motionless eyes, and in that shadowy 
voice." 

As she spoke thus, she seemed to gaze upon some ob- 
ject that stood by her bedside ; and the eyes of those who 
witnessed this scene could not but follow the direction 
of hers. They observed that the dying woman's own 
shadow was marked upon the wall, receiving a tremulous 
motion from the fitful rays of the lamp, and from her 
own convulsive efforts. "My husband stands gazing on 
me," she said again ; " but my son, — where is he ? 
And, as I ask, the father turns away his face. Where 



FANSHAWE. 131 

is our son? Tor his sake, I have longed to come to 
this land of rest. Eor him I have sorrowed many years. 
Will he not comfort me now ? " 

At these words the stranger made a few hasty steps 
towards the bed; but, ere he reached it, he conquered 
the impulse that drew him thither, and, shrouding his 
face more deeply in his cloak, returned to his former 
position. The dying woman, in the mean time, had 
thrown herself back upon the bed ; and her sobbing and 
wailing, imaginary as was their cause, were mexpressibly 
ajffecting. 

"Take me back to earth," she said; "for its griefs 
have followed me hither." 

The stranger advanced, and, seizing the lamp, knelt 
down by the bedside, throwing the light full upon his 
pale and convulsed features. 

" Mother, here is your son ! " he exclaimed. 

At that unforgotten voice, the darkness burst away at 
once from her soul. She arose in bed, her eyes and her 
whole countenance beaming with joy, and threw her 
arms about his neck. A multitude of words seemed 
struggling for utterance ; but they gave place to a low 
moaning sound, and then to the silence of death. The 
one moment of happiness, that recompensed years of sor- 
row, had been her last. Her son laid the lifeless form 
upon the pillow, and gazed with fixed eyes on his moth- 
er's face. 

As he looked, the expression of enthusiastic joy that 
parting life had left upon the features faded gradually 
away ; and the countenance, though no longer wild, as- 
sumed the sadness which it had worn through a long 



IS'Z FANSHAWE. 

course of grief and pain. On beholding tliis natural con- 
sequence of death, the thought, perhaps, occurred to 
him, that her soul, no longer dependent on the imperfect 
means of intercourse possessed by mortals, had com- 
muned with his own, and become acquainted with all its 
guilt and misery. He started from the bedside, and cov- 
ered his face with his hands, as if to hide it from those 
dead eyes. 

Such a scene as has been described could not but have 
a powerful effect upon any one who retained aught of 
humanity ; and the grief of the son, whose natural feel- 
ings had been blunted, but not destroyed, by an evil life, 
was much more violent than his outward demeanor 
would have expressed. But his deep repentance for the 
misery he had brought upon his parent did not produce 
in him a resolution to do wrong no more. The sudden 
consciousness of accumulated guilt made him desperate. 
He felt as if no one had thenceforth a claim to justice or 
compassion at his hands, when his neglect and cruelty 
had poisoned his mother's life, and hastened her death. 
Thus it was that the Devil wi'ought witli him to his own 
destruction, reversing the salutary effect which his mother 
would have died exultiugly to produce upon his mind. 
He now turned to Ellen Langton with a demeanor sin- 
gularly calm and composed. 

" We must resume our journey," he said, in his usual 
tone of voice. "The sun is on the point of rising, 
though but little light finds its way into this hovel." 

Ellen's previous suspicions as to the character of her 
companion had now become certainty so far as to con- 
vince her that she was in the power of a lawless and 



FANSHAWE. 133 

guilty man ; though what fate he intended for her, she 
was unable to conjecture. An open opposition to his 
will, however, could not be ventured upon ; especially as 
she discovered, on looking round the apartment, that, 
with the exception of the corpse, they were alone. 

"Will you not attend your mother's funeral?" she 
asked, trembhng, and conscious that he would discover 
her fears. 

"The dead must bury their dead," he replied. "I 
have brought my mother to her grave, — and what can 
a son do more ? This purse, however, will serve to lay 
her in the earth, and leave something for the old hag. 
Whither is she gone ? " interrupted he, casting a glance 
round the room in search of the old woman. "Nay, 
then, we must speedily to horse. I know her of 
old." 

Thus saying, he threw the purse upon the table, and, 
without trusting himself to look again towards the dead, 
conducted Ellen out of the cottage. The first rays of 
the sun at that moment gilded the tallest trees of the 
forest. 

On looking towards the spot where the horses had 
stood, Ellen thought that Providence, in answer to her 
prayers, had taken care for her deliverance. They were 
no longer there, — a circumstance easily accounted for 
by the haste with which the bridles had been thrown 
over the branch of the tree. Her companion, however, 
imputed it to another cause. 

" The hag ! She would sell her own flesh and blood 
by weight and measure," he muttered to himself. " This 
is some plot of hers, I know well." 



134 FANSHAWE. 

He put his hand to his forehead for a moment's space, 
seeming to reflect on the course most advisable to be 
pursued. Ellen, perhaps unwisely, interposed. 

" Would it not be well to return ? " she asked, timidly. 
" There is now no hope of escaping ; but I might yet 
reach home undiscovered." 

" Return ! " repeated her guide, with a look and smile 
from which she turned away her face. " Have you for- 
gotten your father and his misfortunes ? No, no, sweet 
Ellen : it is too late for such thoughts as these." 

He took her hand, and led her towards the forest, in 
the rear of the cottage. She would fain have resisted ; 
but they were all alone, and the attempt must have been 
both fruitless and dangerous. She therefore trod with 
him a path so devious, so faintly traced, and so over- 
grown with bushes and young trees, that only a most 
accurate acquaintance in his early days could have 
enabled her guide to retain it. To him, however, it 
seemed so perfectly familiar, that he was not once com- 
pelled to pause, though the numerous windings soon 
deprived Ellen of all knowledge of the situation of the 
cottage. They descended a steep hill, and, proceeding 
parallel to the river, — as Ellen judged by its rushing 
sound, — at length found themselves at what proved to 
be the termination of their walk. 

Ellen now recollected a remark of Edward Walcott's 
respecting the wild and rude scenery through which the 
river here kept its way ; and, in less agitating circum- 
stances, her pleasure and admiration would have been 
great. They stood beneath a precipice, so high that the 
loftiest piue-tops (and many of them seemed to soar to 



FANSHAWE. 135 

heaven) scarcely surmounted it. This line of rock has 
a considerable extent, at unequal heights, and with many 
interruptions, along the course of the river ; and it seems 
probable, that at some former period it was the boundary 
of the waters, though they are now confined within far 
less ambitious limits. The inferior portion of the crag, 
beneath which Ellen and her guide were standing, varies 
so far from the perpendicular as not to be inaccessible by 
a careful footstep. But only one person has been known 
to attempt the ascent of the superior half, and only one 
the descent ; yet, steep as is the height, trees and bushes 
of various kinds have clung to the rock, wherever their 
roots could gain the slightest hold ; thus seeming to pre- 
fer the scanty and difficult nourishment of the cliff to a 
more luxurious life in the rich interval that extends from 
its base to the river. But, whether or no these hardy 
vegetables have voluntarily chosen their rude resting- 
place, the cliff is indebted to them for much of the beauty 
that tempers its sublimity. When the eye is pained and 
wearied by the bold nakedness of the rock, it rests with 
pleasure on the cheerful foHage of the birch, or upon the 
darker green of the funereal pine. Just at the termina- 
tion of the accessible portion of the crag, these trees are 
so numerous, and their foliage so dense, that they com- 
pletely shroud from view a considerable excavation, 
formed, probably, hundreds of years since, by the fall of 
a portion of the rock. The detached fragment still lies 
at a little distance from the base, gray and moss-grown, 
but corresponding, in its general outline, to the cavity 
from which it was rent. 

But the most singular and beautiful object in all this 



136 FANSHAWE. 

scene is a tiny fount of crystal water, that gushes forth 
from the high, smooth forehead of the cliff. Its per- 
pendicular descent is of many feet ; after which it finds 
its way, with a sweet diminutive murmur, to the level 
ground. 

It is not easy to conceive whence the barren rock pro- 
cures even the small supply of water that is necessary to 
the existence of this stream ; it is as unaccountable as 
the gush of gentle feeling which sometimes proceeds 
from the hardest heart : but there it continues to flow 
and fall, undiminished and unincreased. The stream is 
so slender, that the gentlest breeze suffices to disturb its 
descent, and to scatter its pure sweet waters over the 
face of the cliff. But in that deep forest there is seldom 
a breath of wind ; so that, plashing continually upon one 
spot, the fount has worn its own little channel of white 
sand, by which it finds its way to the river. Alas that 
the Naiades have lost their old authority ! for what a 
deity of tiny loveliness must once have presided here! 

Ellen's companion paused not to gaze either upon the 
loveliness or the sublimity of this scene, but, assisting 
her where it was requisite, began the steep and difficult 
ascent of the lower part of the cliff. The maiden's inge- 
nuity in vain endeavored to assign reasons for this move- 
ment ; but when they reached the tuft of trees, which, 
as has been noticed, grew at the ultimate point where 
mortal footstep might safely tread, she perceived through 
their thick branches the recess in the rock. Here they 
entered ; and her guide pointed to a mossy seat, in the 
formation of which, to judge from its regularity, art had 
probably a share. 



FANSHAWE. 137 

" Here you may remain in safety," he observed, " till 
I obtain the means of proceeding. In this spot you 
need fear no intruder ; but it will be dangerous to ven- 
ture beyond its bounds." 

The meaning glance that accompanied these words 
intimated to poor Ellen, that, in warning her against 
danger, he alluded to the vengeance with which he would 
visit any attempt to escape. To leave her thus alone, 
trustmg to the iDfluence of such a threat, was a bold, 
yet a necessary and by no means a hopeless measure. 
On Ellen it produced the desired effect ; and she sat in 
the cave as motionless, for a time, as if she had herself 
been a part of the rock. In other circumstances this 
shady recess would have been a delightful retreat during 
the sultry warmth of a summer's day. The dewy cool- 
ness of the rock kept the air always fresh, and the sun- 
beams never thrust themselves so as to dissipate the 
mellow twilight through the green trees with which 
the chamber was curtained. Ellen's sleeplessness and 
agitation for many preceding hours had perhaps dead- 
ened her feehngs ; for she now felt a sort (5f indifference 
creeping upon her, an inability to realize the evils of her 
situation, at the same time that she was perfectly aware 
of them all. This torpor of mind increased, till her eye- 
hds began to grow heavy, and the cave and trees to 
swim before her sight. In a few moments more, she 
would probably have been in dreamless slumber; but. 
rousing herself by a strong effort, she looked round the 
narrow limits of the cave in search of objects to excite 
her worn-out mind. 

She now perceived, wherever the smooth rock afforded 



138 FANSHAWE. 

place for them, the initials, or the full-length names, of 
former visitants of the cave. What wanderer on moun- 
tain-tops or in deep solitudes has not felt the influence of 
these records of humanity, telling him, when such a con- 
viction is soothing to his heart, that he is not alone in 
the world ? It was singular, that, when her own myste- 
rious situation had almost lost its power to engage her 
thoughts, Ellen perused these barren memorials with 
a certain degree of interest. She went on repeating 
them aloud, and starting at the sound of her own voice, 
till at length, as one name passed through her lips, she 
paused, and then, leaning her forehead against tlie let- 
ters, burst into tears. It was the name of Edward Wal- 
cott ; and it struck upon her heart, arousing her to a 
full sense of her present misfortunes and dangers, and, 
more painful still, of her past happiness. Her tears 
had, however, a soothing, and at the same time a 
strengthening effect upon her mind; for, when their 
gush was over, she raised her head, and began to medi- 
tate on the means of escape. She wondered at the spe- 
cies of fascination that had kept her, as if chained to the 
rock, so long, when there was, in reality, nothing to bar 
her pathway. She determined, late as it was, to attempt 
her own deliverance, and for that purpose began slowly 
and cautiously to emerge from the cave. 

Peeping out from among the trees, she looked and 
listened with most painful anxiety to discover if any 
living thing were in that seeming solitude, or if any 
sound disturbed the heavy stillness. But she saw only 
Nature in her wildest forms, and heard only the plash 
and murmur (almost inaudible, because continual) of the 



FANSHAWE. 139 

little waterfall, and the quick, sliort tlirobbing of her 
own heart, against which she pressed her hand, as if to 
hush it. Gathering courage, therefore, she began to 
descend ; and, starting often at the loose stones that 
even her liglit footstep displaced and sent rattling down, 
she at length reached the base of the crag in safety. 
She then made a few steps in the direction, as nearly as 
she could judge, by which she arrived at the spot, but 
paused, with a sudden revulsion of the blood to her 
heart, as her guide emerged from behind a projecting 
part of the rock. He approached her deliberately, an iron- 
ical smile writhing his features into a most disagreeable 
expression ; while in his eyes there was something that 
seemed a wild, fierce joy. By a species of sophistry, of 
which oppressors often make use, he had brought himself 
to believe that he was now the injured one, and that 
Ellen, by her distrust of him, had fairly subjected herself 
to whatever evil it consisted with his will and power to 
inflict upon her. Her only restraining influence over 
Lim, the consciousness, in his own mind, that he pos- 
sessed her confidence, was now done away. Ellen, as 
well as her enemy, felt that this was the case. She 
knew not what to dread ; but she was well aware that 
danger was at hand, and that, in the deep wilderness, 
there was none to help her, except that Being with 
whose inscrutable purposes it might consist to allow the 
wicked to triumph for a season, and the innocent to be 
brought low. 

"Are you so soon weary of this quiet retreat?" de- 
manded her guide, continuing to wear the same sneering 
smile. " Or has your anxiety for your father induced 



140 FANSHAWE. 

you to set forth alone in quest of the afflicted old 
man?" 

" 0, if I were but witji him ! " exclaimed Ellen. 
"But this place is lonely and fearful; and I cannot 
endure to remain here." 

"Lonely, is it, sweet Ellen?" he rejoined; "am I 
not with you ? Yes, it is lonely, — lonely as guilt 
could wish. Cry aloud, Ellen, and spare not. Shriek, 
and see if there be any among these rocks and woods to 
hearken to you ! " 

" There is, there is One," exclaimed Ellen, shuddering, 
and affrighted at the fearful meaning of his countenance. 
" He is here ! He is there ! " And she pointed to 
heaven. 

" It may be so, dearest," he replied. " But if there 
be an Ear that hears, and an Eye that sees all the evil of 
the earth, yet the Arm is slow to avenge. Else why do 
I stand before you a living man ? " 

" His vengeance may be delayed for a time, but not 
forever," she answered, gathering a desperate courage 
from the extremity of her fear. 

" You say true, lovely Ellen ; and I have done enough, 
erenow, to insure its heaviest weight. There is a pass, 
when evil deeds can add nothing to guilt, nor good ones 
take anythii:ig from it." 

" Think of your mother, — of her sorrow through life, 
and perhaps even after death," Ellen began to say. But, 
as she spoke these words, the expression of his face was 
changed, becoming suddenly so dark and fiend-like, that 
she clasped her hands, and fell on her knees before him. 

" I have thought of my mother," he replied, speaking 



FANSHAWE. 141 

very low, and putting his face close to hers. " I remem- 
ber the neglect, the wrong, the lingering and miserable 
death, that she received, at my hands. By what claim 
can either man or woman henceforth expect mercy from 
me ? If God will help you, be it so ; but by those words 
you have turned my heart to stone." 

At this period of their conversation, when Ellen's peril 
seemed most imminent, the attention of both was at- 
tracted by a fragment of rock, which, falling from the 
summit of the crag, struck very near them. Ellen 
started from her knees, and, with her false guide, gazed 
eagerly upward, — he in the fear of interruption, she in 
the hope of deliverance. 





CHAPTEE IX. 

" At length, he cries, behold the fated spring ! 
Yon rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest. 
Dark rocks its crystal source o'ershadowing." 

Psyche. 

HE tale now returns to Fansliawe, who, as will 
be recollected, after being overtaken by Edward 
Walcott, was left with little apparent prospect 
of aiding in the dehverance of Ellen Langton. 

It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with which 
the student pursued the chase, or to decide whether he 
was influenced and animated by the same hopes of suc- 
cessful love that cheered his rival. That he was con- 
scious of such hopes, there is little reason to suppose ; 
for the most powerful minds are not always the best 
acquainted with their own feelings. Had Eanshawe, 
moreover, acknowledged to himself the possibility of 
gaining Ellen's affections, his generosity would have 
induced him to refrain from her society before it was too 
late. He had read her character with accuracy, and had 
seen how fit she was to love, and to be loved, by a man 
who could find his happiness in the common occupations 
of the world ; and Eanshawe never deceived himself so 



FANSHAWE. 143 

far as to suppose tliat this would be the ease with him. 
Indeed, he often wondered at the passion with which 
Ellen's simple loveliness of mind and person had inspired 
him, and which seemed to be founded on the principle of 
contrariety, rather than of sympathy. It was the yearn- 
ing of a soul, formed by Nature in a pecuhar mould, for 
communion with those to whom it bore a resemblance, 
yet of whom it was not. But there was no reason to 
suppose that Ellen, who differed from the multitude only 
as being purer and better, would cast away her affections 
on the one, of all who surrounded her, least fitted to 
make her happy. Thus Eanshawe reasoned with himself, 
and of this he believed that he was convinced. Yet ever 
and anon he found himself involved in a dream of bliss, 
of which Ellen was to be the giver and the sharer. Then 
would he rouse himself, and press upon his mind the 
chilling consciousness that it was and could be but a 
dream. There was also another feeling, apparently dis- 
cordant with those which have been enumerated. It 
was a longing for rest, for his old retirement, that came 
at intervals so powerfully upon him, as he rode on, that 
his heart sickened of the active exertion on which fate 
had thrust him. 

After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, Eanshawe 
continued his journey with as much speed as was attain- 
able by his wearied horse, but at a pace infinitely too 
slow for his earnest thoughts. These had carried him 
far away, leaving him only such a consciousness of his 
present situation as to make diligent use of the spur, 
when a horse's tread at no great distance struck upon 
his ear. He looked forward and behind ; but, though a 



1^4 FAN S HAW E. 

considerable extent of the narrow, roclcy, and grass, 
grown road was visible, he wais the only traveller there. 
Yet again he heard the sound, which, he now discovered, 
proceeded from among the trees that lined the roadside. 
Alighting, he entered the forest, with the intention, if 
the steed proved to be disengaged, and superior to his 
own, of appropriating him to his own use. He soon 
gained a view of the object he sought ; but the animal 
rendered a closer acquaintance unattainable, by imme- 
diately taking to his heels. Eanshawe had, however, 
made a most interesting discovery ; for the horse was 
accoutred with a side-saddle ; and who but Ellen Lang- 
ton could have been his rider? At this conclusion, 
though his perplexity was thereby in no degree dimin. 
ished, the student immediately arrived. Returning to 
the road, and perceiving on the summit of the hill a 
cottage, which he recognized as the one he had entered 
with Ellen and Edward Walcott, he determined there to 
make inquiry respecting the objects of his pursuit. 

On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken dwelling, 
he saw that it was not now so desolate of inmates as on 
his previous visit. In the single inhabitable apartment 
were several elderly women, clad evidently in their well- 
worn and well-saved Sunday clothes, and all wearing a 
deep grievous expression of countenance. Eanshawe 
was not long in deciding that death was within the cot' 
tage, and that these aged females were of the class who 
love the house of mourning, because to them it is a house 
of feasting. It is a fact, disgusting and lamentable, that 
the disposition which Heaven, for the best of purposes, 
has implanted in the female breast — to watch by the 



FANSHAWE. 145 

sick, and comfort the afflicted — frequently becomes 
depraved into an odious love of scenes of pain and death 
and sorrow. Such women are like the Ghouls of the 
Arabian Tales, whose feasting was among tombstones 
and upon dead carcasses. 

(It is sometimes, though less frequently, the case, that 
this disposition to make a "joy of grief" extends to in- 
dividuals of the other sex. But in us it is even less 
excusable and more disgusting, because it is our nature 
to shun the sick and afflicted ; and, unless restrained by 
principles other than we bring into the world with us, 
men might follow the example of many animals in de- 
stroying the infirm of their own species. Indeed, in- 
stances of this nature might be adduced among savage 
nations.) Sometimes, however, from an original lusus 
naturae, or from the influence of circumstances, a man 
becomes a haunter of death-beds, a tormentor of afflicted 
hearts, and a follower of funerals. Such an abomination 
now appeared before Fanshawe, and beckoned him into 
the cottage. He was considerably beyond the middle 
age, rather corpulent, with a broad, fat, tallow-com- 
plexioned countenance. The student obeyed his silent 
call, and entered the room, through the open door of 
which he had been gazing. 

He now beheld, stretched out upon the bed where she 
had so lately laid in life, though dying, the yet uncof- 
fined corpse of the aged woman, whose death has been 
described^ How frightful it seemed ! — that fixed coun- 
tenance of ashy paleness, amid its decorations of muslin 
and fine linen, as if a bride were decked for the marriage- 
chamber, as if death were a bridegroom, and the coffin 
7 J 



146 PANSHAWE. 

a bridal bed. Alas that the vanity of dress should ex- 
tend even to the grave ! 

The female who, as being the near and only relative 
of the deceased, was supposed to stand in need of com- 
fort, was surrounded by five or six of her own sex. 
These continually poured into her ear the stale, trite 
maxims which, where consolation is actually required, 
add torture insupportable to the wounded heart. Their 
present object, however, conducted herself with all due 
decorum, holding her handkerchief to her tearless eyes, 
and answering with very grievous groans to the words 
of her comforters. Who could have imagined that there 
was joy in her heart, because, since her sister's death, 
there was but one remaining obstacle between herself 
und the sole property of that wretched cottage? 

While Fanshawe stood silently observing this scene, 
a low, monotonous voice was uttering some words in his 
ear, of the meaning of which his mind did not imme- 
diately take note. He turned, and saw that the speaker 
was the person who had invited him to enter. 

" What is your pleasure with me, sir ? " demanded the 
student. 

"I make bold to ask," replied the man, "whether you 
would choose to partake of some creature comfort, be- 
fore joining in prayer with the family and friends of our 
deceased sister ? " As he spoke, he pointed to a table, 
on which was a moderate-sized stone jug and two oi 
three broken glasses ; for then, as now, there were few 
occasions of joy oi grief on which ardent spirits were 
not considered indispensable, to heighten the one or to 
alleviate the other. 



FANSHAWE. 147 

"I stand in no need of refreshment," answered Ean' 
shawe ; " and it is not my intention to pray at present." 

"I pray your pardon, reverend sir," rejoined the 
other; "but your face is pale, and you look M^earied. 
A drop from yonder vessel is needful to recruit the out- 
ward man. And for the prayer, the sisters will expect 
it ; and their souls are longing for the outpouring of the 
Spirit. I was intending to open my own mouth with 
such words as are given to my poor ignorance, but — " 

Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this address, 
which proceeded on the supposition, arising from his 
black dress and thoughtful countenance, that he was a 
clergyman. But one of the females now approached 
him, and intimated that the sister of the deceased was 
desirous of the benefit of his conversation. He would 
have returned a negative to this request, but, looking 
towards the afllicted woman, he saw her withdraw her 
handkerchief from her eyes, and cast a brief but pene- 
trating and most inteUigent glance upon him. He im- 
mediately expressed his readiness to offer such consolation 
as might be in his power. 

"And in the mean time," observed the lay-preacher, 
" I will give the sisters to expect a word of prayer and 
exliortation, either from you or from myself." 

These words were lost upon the supposed clergyman, 
who was already at the side of the mourner. The fe- 
males withdrew out of ear-shot to give place to a more 
legitimate comforter than themselves. 

" What know you respecting my purpose ? " inquired 
Fanshawe, bending towards her. 

The woman gave a groan — the usual result of all 



148 FANSHAWE. 

efforts at consolation — for the edification of the com- 
pa,ny, and tlien replied in a whisper, which reached only 
the ear for which it was intended. " I know whom you 
come to seek : I can direct you to them. Speak low, 
for God's sake ! " she continued, observing that Pan- 
shawe was about to utter an exclamation. She then 
resumed her groans with greater zeal than before, 

" Where — where are they ? " asked the student, in a 
whisper which all his efforts could scarcely keep below 
his breath. "I adjure you to tell me." 

" And, if I should, how am I like to be bettered by 
it ? " inquired the old woman, her speech still preceded 
and followed by a groan. 

" God ! The auri sacra fames ! " thought Fanshawe 
with a sickening heart, looking at the motionless corpse 
upon the bed, and then at the wretched being, whom the 
course of nature, in comparatively a moment of time, 
would reduce to the same condition. 

He whispered again, however, putting his purse into 
the hag's hand. " Take this. Make your own terms 
when they are discovered. Only tell me where I must 
seek them — and speedily, or it may be too late." 

" I am a poor woman, and am afflicted," said she, tak- 
ing the purse, unseen by any who were in the room. " It 
is little that worldly goods can do for me, and not long 
can I enjoy them, " And here she was delivered of a 
louder and a more heartfelt groan than ever. She then 
continued, "Follow the path behind the cottage, that 
leads to the river-side. Walk along the foot of the rock, 
and search for them near the water-spout. Keep a slow 
pace till you are out of siglit," she added, as tlie student 
started to his feet. 



lANSHAWE. 



149 



The guests of the cottage did uot attempt to oppose 
Pansliawe's progress, when they saw him take the path 
towards the forest, imagining, probably, that he was re- 
tiring for the purpose of secret prayer. But the old 
woman laughed behind the handkerchief with which she 
veiled her face. 

" Take heed to your steps, boy," she muttered ; " for 
they are leading you whence you will not return. Death, 
too, for the slayer. Be it so." 

I'anshawe, in the mean while, contrived to discover, 
and for a while to retain, the narrow and winding path 
that led to the river-side. But it was originally no more 
than a track, by which the cattle belonging to the cottage 
went down to their watering-place, and by these four- 
footed passengers it had long been deserted. The fern- 
bushes, therefore, had grown over it ; and in several 
places trees of considerable size had shot up in the midst. 
These difficulties could scarcely have been surmounted 
by the utmost caution ; and as Eanshawe's thoughts were 
too deeply fixed upon the end to pay a due regard to the 
means, he soon became desperately bewildered both as 
to the locality of the river and of the cottage. Had he 
known, however, in which direction to seek the latter, he 
would not, probably, have turned back ; not that he was 
infected by any chivalrous desire to finish the adventure 
alone, but because he would expect little assistance from 
those he had left there. Yet he could not but wonder — 
though he had not in his first eagerness taken notice of 
it — at the anxiety of the old woman that he should pro- 
ceed singly, and without the knowledge of her guests, on 
the search. He nevertheless continued to wander on, — 



150 FANSHAWE. 

pausing often to listen for tlie rush of the river, and then 
starting forward with fresh rapidity, to rid himself of the 
sting of his own thoughts, which became painfully intense 
"when undisturbed by bodily motion. His way was now 
frequently interrupted by rocks, that thrust their huge 
gray heads from the ground, compelling him to turn 
aside, and thus depriving him, fortunately perhaps, of all 
remaining idea of the direction he had intended to pur- 
sue. 

Thus he went on, his head turned back, and taking 
little heed to his footsteps, when, perceiving that he trod 
upon a smooth, level rock, he looked forward, and found 
himself almost on the utmost verge of a precipice. 

After the throbbing of the heart that followed this nar- 
row escape had subsided, he stood gazing down, where 
the sunbeams slept so pleasantly at the roots of the tall 
old trees, with whose highest tops he was upon a level. 
Suddenly he seemed to hear voices — one well-remem- 
bered voice — ascending from beneath ; and, approach- 
ing to the edge of the cliff, he saw at its base the two 
whom he sought. 

He saw and interpreted Ellen's look and attitude of 
entreaty, though the words with which she sought to 
soften the ruthless heart of her guide became inaudible 
ere they reached the height where Fanshawe stood. He 
felt that Heaven had sent him thither at the moment of 
her utmost need, to be the preserver of all that was dear 
to him ; and he paused only to consider the mode in 
which her deliverance was to be effected. Life he would 
have laid down willingly, exultingly : his only care was, 
that the sacrifice should not be in vain. 



FANSHAWE. 151 

At lengtli, when Ellen fell upon her knees, he lifted a 
small fragment of rock, and threw it down the cliif. It 
struck so near the pair, that it immediately drew the at- 
tention of both. 

When the betrayer, at the instant in which he had 
almost defied the power of the Omnipotent to bring help 
to Ellen, became aware of Eanshawe's presence, his hardi- 
hood failed him for a time, and his knees actually tot- 
tered beneath him. There was something awful, to his 
appreliension, in the slight form that stood so far above 
him, like a being from another sphere, looking down upon 
his wickedness. But his half-superstitious dread endured 
only a moment's space ; and then, mustering the courage 
that in a thousand dangers had not deserted him, he pre- 
pared to revenge the intrusion by which Eanshawe had a 
second time interrupted his designs. 

" By Heaven, I will cast him down at her feet ! " he 
muttered through his closed teeth. " There shall be no 
form nor likeness of man left in him. Then let him rise 
up, if he is able, and defend her." 

Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard in his eager 
hatred and desire for vengeance, he began a desperate 
attempt to ascend the cliff. The space which only had 
hitherto been deemed accessible was quickly passed ; and 
in a moment more he was half-way up the precipice, cling- 
ing to trees, shrubs, and projecting portions of the rock, 
and escaping through hazards which seemed to menace 
inevitable destruction. 

Eanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, deemed 
that every step would be his last ; but when he perceived 
that more than half, and apparently the most difficult 



152 FANSHAWE. 

part, of the ascent was surmounted, his opmion changed. 
His courage, however, did not fail him as the moment of 
need drew nigh. His spirits rose buoyantly ; his limbs 
seemed to grow firm and strong ; and he stood on the 
edge of the precipice, prepared for the death-struggle 
which would follow the success of his enemy's attempt. 

But that attempt was not successful. When within a 
few feet of the summit, the adventurer grasped at a twig 
too slenderly rooted to sustain his weight. It gave way 
in his hand, and he fell backward down the precipice. 
His head struck against the less perpendicular part of 
the rock, whence the body rolled heavily down to the 
detached fragment, of which mention has heretofore been 
made. There was no life left in him. With all the pas- 
sions of hell alive in his heart, he had met the fate that 
he intended for Fanshawe. 

The student paused not then to shudder at the sudden 
and awful overthrow of his enemy ; for he saw that Ellen 
lay motionless at the foot of the cliff. She had indeed 
fainted at the moment she became aware of her deliv- 
erer's presence; and no stronger proof could she have 
given of her firm reliance upon his protection. 

Eanshawe was not deterred by the danger, of which he 
had just received so fearful an evidence, from attempting 
to descend to her assistance ; and, whether owing to his 
advantage in lightness of frame, or to superior caution, 
he arrived safely at the base of the precipice. 

He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his arms, 
and, resting her head against his shoulder, gazed on her 
cheek of lily paleness with a joy, a triumph, that rose 
almost to madness. It contained no mixture of hope; 



FANSIIAWE. 153 

it had no reference to the future : it was the perfect bliss 
of a moment, — an insulated point of happiness. He bent 
over her, and pressed a kiss — the first, and he knew it 
would be the last — on her pale lips ; then, bearing her 
to the fountain, he sprinkled its waters profusely over her 
face, neck, and bosom. She at length opened her eyes, 
slowly and heavily ; but her mind was evidently wander- 
ing, till Fanshawe spoke. 

" Eear not, Ellen : you are safe," he said. 

At the sound of his voice, her arm, which was thrown 
over his shoulder, involuntarily tightened its embrace, 
telling him, by that mute motion, with how firm a trust 
she confided in him. But, as a fuller sense of her situa- 
tion returned, she raised herself to her feet, though still 
retaining the support of his arm. It was singular, that, 
although her insensibility had commenced before the fall 
of her guide, she turned away her eyes, as if iustiuctively, 
from the spot where the mangled body lay ; nor did she 
inquire of Fanshawe the manner of her deliverance. 

"Let us begone from this place," she said in faint, 
low accents, and with an inward shudder. 

They walked along the precipice, seeking some pas- 
sage by which they might gain its summit, and at length 
arrived at that by which Ellen and her guide had de- 
scended. Chance — for neither Ellen nor Eanshawe 
could have discovered the path — led them, after but 
little wandering, to the cottage. A messenger was sent 
forward to the town to inform Dr. Melmoth of the re- 
covery of his ward ; and the intelligence tlius received 
had interrupted Edward Walcott's conversation with the 
seaman. 

7* 



154? FANSHAWE. 

It would have been impossible, in the mangled remains 
of Ellen's guide, to discover the son of the Widow But- 
ler, except from the evidence of her sister, who became, 
by his death, the sole inheritrix of the cottage. The his- 
tory of this evil and unfortunate man must be comprised 
within very narrow limits. A harsh father, and his own 
untamable disposition, had driven him from home in his 
boyhood ; and chance had made him the temporary com- 
panion of Hugh Crombie. After two years of wandering, 
when in a foreign country and in circumstances of ut- 
most need, he attracted the notice of Mr. Langton. The 
merchant took his young countryman under his protec- 
tion, afforded him advantages of education, and, as his 
capacity was above mediocrity, gradually trusted him in 
many affairs of importance. During this period, there 
was no evidence of dishonesty on his part. On the con- 
trary, he manifested a zeal for Mr. Langton's interest, 
and a respect for his person, that proved his strong sense 
of the benefits he had received. But he unfortunately 
fell into certain youthful indiscretions, which, if not 
entirely pardonable, might have been palliated by many 
considerations that would have occurred to a merciful 
man. Mr. Langton's justice, however, was seldom tem- 
pered by mercy ; and, on this occasion, he shut the door 
of repentance against his erring protege, and left him in 
a situation not less desperate than that from which he 
had relieved him. The goodness and the nobleness, of 
which his heart was not destitute, turned, from that 
time, wholly to evil ; and he became irrecoverably ruined 
and irreclaimably depraved. His waudering life had led 
him, shortly before the period of this tale, to his native 



FANSHAWE. 155 

country. Here the erroneous intelligence of Mr. Lang- 
ton's death had reached him, and suggested the scheme, 
which circumstances seemed to render practicable, but 
the fatal termination of which has been related. 

The body was buried where it had fallen, close by the 
huge, gray, moss-grown fragment of rock, — a monu- 
ment on which centuries can work little change. The 
eighty years that have elapsed since the death of the 
widow's son have, however, been sufficient to obliterate 
an inscription, which some one was at the pains to cut 
in the smooth surface of the stone. Traces of letters 
are still discernible ; but the writer's many efforts could 
never discover a connected meaning. The grave, also, is 
overgrown with fern-bushes, and sunk to a level with 
the surrounding soil. But the legend, though my ver- 
sion of it may be forgotten, will long be traditionary in 
that lonely spot, and give to the rock and the precipice 
and the fountain an interest thrilling to the bosom of 
the romantic wanderer. 








CHAPTEE X. 

" Sitting tlien in shelter shady, 
To observe and mark his mono. 
Suddenly I saw a lady 
Hasting to him all alone, 
Clad in maiden-white and green. 
Whom I judged the Forest Queen." 

The Woodman's Beae. 

URING several weeks succeeding her dange? 
and deliverance, Ellen Langton was confined to 
her chamber by illness, resulting from the agita- 
tion slie had endured. Her father embraced the earliest 
opportunity to express his deep gratitude to Eanshawe 
for the inestimable service he had rendered, and to inti- 
mate a desire to requite it to the utmost of his power. 
He had understood that the student's circumstances 
were not prosperous, and, with the feeling of one who 
was habituated to give and receive a qtdd pro quo, he 
would have rejoiced to share his abundance with the 
deliverer of his daughter. But Eanshawe' s flushed brow 
and haughty eye, when he perceived the thought that 
was stirring in Mr. Langton's mind, sufficiently proved 
to the discerning merchant that money was not, in the 
present instance, a circulating medium. His penetra- 



FANSHAWE. 157 

Hon, in fact, very soou informed liim of the motives by 
which the young man had been actuated in risking his 
life for Ellen Langto^ ; but he made no allusion to the 
subject, conceahng his intentions, if any he had, in his 
own bosom. 

During Ellen's illness, Edward Walcott had manifested 
the deepest anxiety respecting her : he had wandered 
around and within the house, like a restless ghost, in- 
forming himself of the slightest fluctuation in her health, 
and thereby graduating his happiness or misery. He 
was at length informed that her convalescence had so 
far progressed, that, on the succeeding day, she w^ould 
vent ure below. From that time, Edward's visits to Dr. 
Melmoth's mansion were relinquished. His cheek grew 
pale, and his eye lost its merry light ; but he resolutely 
kept himself a banished man. Multifarious were the 
conjectures to which this course of conduct gave rise ; 
but Ellen understood and approved his motives. The 
maiden must have been far more bhnd than ever woman 
was in such a matter, if the late events had not convinced 
her of Eanshawe's devoted attachment ; and she saw that 
Edward "Walcott, feeling the superior, the irresistible 
strength of his rival's claim, had retired from the field. 
Eanshawe, however, discovered no intention to pursue 
his advantage. He paid her no voluntary visit, and even 
declined an invitation to tea, with which Mrs. Melmoth, 
after extensive preparations, had favored him. He 
seemed to have resumed all the habits of seclusion by 
which he was distinguished previous to his acquaintance 
with Ellen, except that he still took his sunset walk on 
the banks of the stream. 



158 FANSHAWE. 

On one of these occasions, lie stayed his footsteps by 
the old leafless oak which had witnessed Ellen's first 
meeting with the angler. Here he jnused upon the cir- 
cumstances that had resulted from that event, and upon 
the rights and privileges (for he was well aware of them 
all) which those circumstances had given him. Perhaps 
the loveliness of the scene and the recollections connected 
with it, perhaps the warm and mellow sunset, perhaps 
a temporary weakness in himself, had softened his feel- 
ings, and shaken the firmness of his resolution, to leave 
Ellen to be happy with his rival. His strong affections 
rose up against his reason, whispering that bliss — on 
earth and in Heaven, through time and eternity — might 
yet be his lot with her. It is impossible to conceive of 
the flood of momentary joy which the bare admission 
of such a possibility sent through his frame; and, just 
when the tide was highest in his heart, a soft little hand 
was laid upon his own, and, starting, he beheld Ellen at 
his side. 

Her illness, since the commencement of which Ean- 
shawe had not seen her, had wrought a considerable, 
but not a disadvantageous change in her appearance. 
She was paler and thinner ; her countenance was more 
intellectual, more spiritual ; and a spirit did the student 
almost deem her, appearing so suddenly in that solitude. 
There was a quick vibration of the delicate blood in her 
cheek, yet never brightening to the glow of perfect 
health : a tear was glittering on each of her long, dark 
eyelashes; and there was a gentle tremor through all her 
frame, which compelled her, for a little space, to support 
herself against the oak. Fanshawe's first impulse was 



FANSHAWE. 159 

to address lier in words of rapturous delight ; "but he 
checked himself, and attempted — vainly indeed — to 
clothe his voice in tones of calm courtesy. His remark 
merely expressed pleasure at her restoration to health ; 
and Ellen's low and indistinct reply had as little relation 
to the feelings that agitated her. 

" Yet I fear," continued Eanshawe, recovering a de- 
gree of composure, and desirous of assigning a motive 
(which he felt was not the true one) for Ellen's agitation, 
— "I fear that your walk has extended too far for your 
strength." 

" It would have borne me farther with such a motive,'* 
she replied, still trembling, — " to express my gratitude 
to my preserver." 

" It was needless, Ellen, it was needless ; for the deed 
brought with it its own reward," exclaimed Eanshawe, 
with a vehemence that he could not repress. " It was 
dangerous, for — " 

Here he interrupted himself, and turned his face away. 

" And wherefore was it dangerous ? " inquired Ellen, 
laying her hand gently on his arm ; for he seemed about 
to leave her. 

" Because you have a tender and generous heart, and 
I a weak one," he replied. 

" Not so," answered she, with animation. " Yours is 
a heart full of strength and nobleness ; and if it have a 
weakness — " 

" You know well that it has, Ellen, — one that has 
swallowed up all its strength," said Eanshawe. " Was 
it wise, then, to tempt it thus, when, if it yield, the result 
must be your own misery ? " 



160 FANSHAWE. 

Ellen did not affect to misunderstand his meaning. 
On the contrary, with a noble frankness, she answered to 
what was implied rather than expressed. 

" Do me not this wrong," she said, blushing, yet 
earnestly. " Can it be misery ? Will it not be happi- 
ness to form the tie that shall connect you to the world ? 
to be your guide — a humble one, it is true, but the one 
of your choice — to the quiet paths from which your 
proud and lonely thoughts have estranged you? O, 
I know that there will be happiness in such a lot, from 
these and a thousand other sources ! " 

The animation with which Ellen spoke, and, at the 
same time, a sense of the singular course to which her 
gratitude had impelled her, caused her beauty to grow 
brighter and more enchanting with every word. And 
when, as she concluded, she extended her hand to Fan- 
shawe, to refuse it was like turning from an angel, who 
would have guided him to heaven. But, had he been 
capable of making the woman he loved a sacrifice to her 
own generosity, that act would have rendered him un- 
worthy of her. Yet the struggle was a severe one ere 
he could reply. 

" You have spoken generously and nobly, Ellen," he 
said. " I have no way to prove that I deserve your 
generosity, but by refusing to take advantage of it. 
Even if your heart were yet untouched, if no being more 
happily constituted than myself had made an impression 
there, even then, I trust, a selfish passion would not be 
stronger than my integrity. But now — " He would 
have proceeded ; but the firmness which had hitherto 
sustained him gave way. He turned aside to hide the 



FANSHAWE. 161 

tears whicli all the pride of liis nature could not restrain, 
and which, instead of relieving, added to his anguish. 
At length he resumed, "No, Ellen, we must part now 
and forever. Your life will be long and happy. Mine 
will be short, but not altogether wretched, nor shorter 
than if we had never met. When you hear that I am in 
my grave, do not imagine that you have hastened me 
thither. Think that you scattered bright dreams around 
my pathway, — an ideal happiness, that you would have 
sacrificed your own to realize." 

He ceased ; and Ellen felt that his determination was 
unalterable. She could not speak ; but, taking his hand, 
she pressed it to her lips, and they saw each other no 
more. Mr. Langton and his daughter shortly after 
returned to the seaport, which, for several succeeding 
years, was their residence. 

After Ellen's departure, Eanshawe returned to his 
studies with the same absorbing ardor that had formerly 
characterized him. His face was as seldom seen among 
the young and gay ; the pure breeze and the blessed 
sunshine as seldom refreshed his pale and weary brow ; 
and his lamp burned as constantly from the first shade of 
evening till the gray morning light began to dim its 
beams. Nor did he, as weak men will, treasure up his 
love in a hidden chamber of his breast. He was in 
reality the thoughtful and earnest student that he seemed. 
He had exerted the whole might of his spirit over itself, 
and he was a conqueror. Perhaps, indeed, a summer 
breeze of sad and gentle thoughts would sometimes visit 
him ; but, in these brief memories of his love, he did not 
wish that it should be revived, or mourn over its event. 



162 FANSHAWE. 

There were many who felt an interest in Fanshawe ; 
but the influence of none could prevail upon liim to lay 
aside the habits, mental and physical, by which he was 
bringing himself to the grave. His passage thither was 
consequently rapid, terminating just as he reached his 
twentieth, year. His fellow- students erected to his mem- 
ory a monument of rough-hewn granite, with a wliite 
marble slab for the inscription. This was borrowed from 
the grave of Nathanael Mather, whom in his almost 
insane eagerness for knowledge, and in his early death, 
Fanshawe resembled. 

THE ASHES OF A HARD STUDENT AND A GOOD SCHOLAR. 

Many tears were shed over his grave ; but the thought- 
ful and the wise, though turf never covered a nobler 
heart, could not lament that it was so soon at rest. He 
left a world for which he was unfit ; and we trust, that, 
among the innumerable stars of heaven, there is one 
where he has found happiness. 

Of the other personages of this tale, — Hugh Crombie, 
being exposed to no strong temptations, lived and died 
an honest man. Concerning Dr. Melmoth, it is un- 
necessary here to speak. The reader, if he have any 
curiosity upon the subject, is referred to his Life, which, 
together with several sermons and other productions of 
the doctor, was published by his successor in the presi- 
dency of Harley College, about the year 17G8. 

It was not till four years after Fanshawe's death, that 
Edward Walcott was united to Ellen Langton. Their 
future lives were uncommonly happy. Ellen's gentle, 
almost imperceptible, but powerful influence drew her 



FANSHAWE. 



163 



husband away from the passions and pursuits that would 
have interfered with domestic felicity; and he never 
regretted the worldly distinction of which she thus de- 
prived him. Theirs was a long life of calm and quiet 
bliss ; and what matters it, that, except in these pages, 
they have left no name behind them ? 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 





MRS. HUTCHINSON. 

HE character of tliis female suggests a train of 
thouglit wliicli will form as natural an Intro- 
duction to her story, as most of the Prefaces 
to Gay's Tables, or the tales of Prior ; besides that, the 
general soundness of the moral may excuse any want of 
present applicability. We will not look for a Uving re- 
semblance of Mrs. Hutchinson, though the search might 
not be altogether fruitless. But there are portentous 
indications, changes gradually taking place in the habits 
and feelings of the gentle sex, which seem to threaten 
our posterity with many of those public women, whereof 
one was a burden too grievous for our fathers. The 
press, however, is now the medium through which femi- 
nine ambition chiefly manifests itself; and we will not 
anticipate the period (trusting to be gone hence ere it 
arrive) when fair orators shall be as numerous as the fair 
authors of our own day. The hastiest glance may show 
how much of the texture and body of cisatlantic litera- 
ture is the work of those slender fingers from which only 
a light and fanciful embroidery has heretofore been re- 
quired, that might sparkle upon the garment without 
enfeebling the web. Woman's intellect should never 



168 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

give the tone to that of man ; and even her morality is 
not exactly the material for masculine virtue. A false 
liberality, which mistakes the strong division-lines of 
Nature for arbitrary distinctions, and a courtesy, which 
might polish criticism, but should never soften it, have 
done their best to add a girlish feebleness to the totter- 
ing infancy of our literature. The evil is likely to be 
a growing one. As yet, the great body of American 
women are a domestic race ; but when a continuance of 
ill-judged incitements shall have turned their hearts away 
from the fireside, there are obvious circumstances which 
will render female pens more numerous and more prolific 
than those of men, though but equally encouraged ; and 
(limited, of course, by the scanty support of the public, 
but increasing indefinitely within those limits) the ink- 
stained Amazons will expel their rivals by actual press- 
ure, and petticoats wave triumphantly over all the field. 
But, allowing that such forebodings are slightly exag- 
gerated, is it good for woman's self that the path of 
feverish hope, of tremulous success, of bitter and igno- 
minious disappointment, should be left wide open to 
her? Is the prize worth her having, if she win it? 
Pame does not increase the peculiar respect which men 
pay to female excellence, and there is a delicacy (even 
in rude bosoms, where few would think to find it) that 
perceives, or fancies, a sort of impropriety in the display 
of woman's natal mind to the gaze of the world, with 
indications by which its inmost secrets may be searched 
out. In fine, criticism should examine with a stricter, 
instead of a more indulgent eye, the merits of females at 
its bar, because they are to justify themselves for an 



MRS. HUTCHINSON. 169 

irregularity wliich men do not commit in appearing 
there; and woman, when she feels the impulse of gen- 
ius like a command of Heaven within her, should be 
aware that she is relinquishing a part of the lovehness 
of her sex, and obey the inward voice with sorrowing 
reluctance, like the Arabian maid who bewailed the gift 
of prophecy. Hinting thus imperfectly at sentiments 
which may be developed on a future occasion, we pro- 
ceed to consider the celebrated subject of this sketch. 

Mrs. Hutchinson was a woman of extraordinary talent 
and strong imagination, whom the latter quality, follow- 
ing the general direction taken by the enthusiasm of the 
times, prompted to stand forth as a reformer in religion. 
In her native country, she had shown symptoms of 
irregular and daring thought, but, chiefly by the influ- 
ence of a favorite pastor, was restrained from open indis- 
cretion. On the removal of this clergyman, becoming 
dissatisfied with the ministry under which she lived, she 
was drawn in by the great tide of Puritan emigration, 
and visited Massachusetts within a few years after its 
first settlement. But she bore trouble in her own 
bosom, and could find no peace in this chosen land. She 
soon began to promulgate strange and dangerous opin- 
ions, tending, in the peculiar situation of the colony, and 
from the principles which were its basis, and indispen- 
sable for its temporary support, to eat into its very exist- 
ence. We shall endeavor to give a more practical idea 
of this part of her course. 

It is a summer evening. The dusk has settled heavily 
upon the woods, the waves, and the Trimountain peniii' 
sula, increasing that dismal aspect of the embryo town, 
8 



170 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

■whicli was said to have drawn tears of despondency from 
Mrs. Hutchinson, though she believed that her mission 
thither was divine. The houses, straw thatched and lowly 
roofed, stand irregularly along streets that are yet rough- 
ened by the roots of the trees, as if the forest, departing 
at the approach of man, had left its reluctant footprints 
behind. Most of the dwellings are lonely and silent : 
from a few we may hear the reading of some sacred text, 
or the quiet voice of prayer ; but nearly all the sombre 
life of the scene is collected near the extremity of the 
village. A crowd of hooded women, and of men in 
steeple-hats and close-cropped hair, are assembled at the 
door and open windows of a house newly built. An 
earnest expression glows in every face ; and some press 
inward, as if the bread of life were to be dealt forth, 
and they feared to lose their share ; while others would 
fain hold them back, but enter with them, since they 
may not be restrained. We, also, will go in, edging 
through the thronged doorway to an apartment which 
occupies the whole breadth of the house. At the upper 
end, behind a table, on which are placed the Scriptures 
and two ghmmering lamps, we see a woman, plainly 
attired, as befits her ripened years : her hair, complex- 
ion, and eyes are dark, the latter somewhat dull and 
heavy, but kindling up with a gradual brightness. Let 
us look round upon the hearers. At her right hand, his 
countenance suiting well with the gloomy light which 
discovers it, stands Vane, the youthful governor, pre- 
ferred by a hasty judgment of the people over all the 
wise and hoary heads that had preceded him to New 
England. In his mysterious eyes we may read a dark 



MRS. HUTCHINSON. 17L 

enthusiasm, akin to that of the woman whose cause he 
has espoused, combined with a shrewd worldly foresight, 
which tells him that her doctrines will be productive of 
change and tumult, the elements of his power and de- 
light. On her left, yet slightly drawn back, so as to 
evince a less decided support, is Cotton, no young and 
hot enthusiast, but a mild, grave man in the decline of 
life, deep in all the learning of the age, and sanctified 
in heart, and made venerable in feature, by the long 
exercise of his holy profession. He, also, is deceived 
by the strange fire now laid upon the altar ; and he alone 
among his brethren is excepted in the denunciation of 
the new apostle, as sealed and set apart by Heaven to 
the work of the ministry. Others of the priesthood stand 
full in front of the woman, striving to beat her down with 
brows of wrinkled iron, and whispering sternly and sig- 
nificantly among themselves as she unfolds her seditious 
doctrines, and grows warm in their support. Foremost 
is Hugh Peters, full of holy wrath, and scarce containing 
himself from rushing forward to convict her of damnable 
heresies. There, also, is Ward, meditating a reply of 
empty puns, and quaint antitheses, and tinklmg jests 
that puzzle us with nothing but a sound. The audience 
are variously affected ; but none are indifferent. On the 
foreheads of the aged, the mature, and strong-minded, 
you may generally read steadfast disapprobation, though 
here and there is one whose faith seems shaken in those 
whom he had trusted for years. The females, on the 
other hand, are shuddering and weeping, and at times 
they cast a desolate look of fear around them ; while the 
young men lean forward, fiery and impatient, fit instru- 



172 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

ments for whatever rash deed may be suggested. And 
what is the eloquence that gives rise to all these pas- 
sions ? The woman tells them (and cites texts from the 
Holy Book to prove her words) that they have put their 
trust in unregenerated and uncommissioned men, and 
have followed them into the wilderness for nought. 
Therefore their hearts are turning from those whom 
they had chosen to lead them to heaven ; and they feel 
like children who have been enticed far from home, and 
see the features of their guides change all at once, as- 
suming a fiendish shape in some frightful solitude. 

These proceedings of Mrs. Hutchinson could not long 
be endured by the provincial government. The present 
was a most remarkable case, in which religious freedom 
was wholly inconsistent with public safety, and where 
the principles of an illiberal age indicated the very 
course which must have been pursued by worldly policy 
and enlightened wisdom. Unity of faith was the star 
that had guided these people over the deep; and a 
diversity of sects would either have scattered them from 
the land to which they had as yet so few attachments, 
or, perhaps, have excited a diminutive civil war among 
those who had come so far to worship together. The 
opposition to what may be termed the Established 
Church had now lost its chief support by the removal of 
Vane from office, and his departure for England; and 
Mr. Cotton began to have that light in regard io his 
errors, which will sometimes break in upon the wisest 
and most pious men, when their opinions are unhappily 
discordant with those of the powers that be. A synod, 
the first in New England, was speedily assembled, and 



MRS. HUTCHINSON. 173 

pronounced its condemnation of the obnoxious doc- 
trines. Mrs. Hutchinson was next summoned before 
tlic supreme civil tribunal, at which, however, the most 
eminent of the clergy were present, and appear to have 
taken a very active part as witnesses and advisers. We 
shall here resume the more picturesque style of narra- 
tion. 

It is a place of humble aspect where the elders of 
the people are met, sitting in judgment upon the dis- 
turber of Israel. The floor of the low and narrow hall 
is laid with planks hewn by the axe ; the beams of the 
roof still wear the rugged bark with which they grew up 
in the forest ; and the hearth is formed of one broad, 
unhammered stone, heaped with logs that roll their blaze 
and smoke up a chimney of wood and clay. A sleety 
shower beats fitfully against the windows, driven by the 
November blast, which comes howling onward from the 
northern desert, the boisterous and unwelcome herald of 
a New England winter. Rude benches are arranged 
across the apartment, and along its sides, occupied by 
men whose piety and learning might have entitled them 
to seats in those high councils of the ancient church, 
whence opinions were sent forth to confirm or supersede 
the gospel in the belief of the whole world and of posterity. 
Here are collected all those blessed fathers of the land, 
who rank in our veneration next to the evangelists of 
Holy Writ ; and here, also, are many, unpuritied from 
the fiercest errors of the age, and ready to propagate the 
religion of peace by violence. In the highest place sits 
Wiuthrop, — a man by whom the innocent and guilty 
might alike desire to be judged; the first confiding in his 



174 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

integrity and wisdom, the latter hoping in his mildness. 
Next is Endicott, who would stand with his drawn 
sword at the gate of heaven, and resist to the death 
all pilgrims thither, except they travelled his own path. 
The infant eyes of one in this assembly beheld the fagots 
blazing round the martyrs in Bloody Mary's time : in 
later life he dwelt long at Leyden, with the first who 
went from England for conscience' sake; and now, in 
liis weary age, it matters little where he lies down to die. 
There are others whose hearts were smitten in the high 
meridian of ambitious hope, and whose dreams still 
tempt them with the pomp of the Old World and the 
din of its crowded cities, gleaming and echoing over the 
deep. In the midst, and in the centre of all eyes, we 
see the woman. She stands loftily before her judges 
with a determined brow ; and, unknown to herself, there 
is a flash of carnal pride half hidden in her eye, as she 
surveys the many learned and famous men whom her 
doctrines have put in fear. They question her ; and her 
answers are ready and acute : she reasons with them 
shrewdly, and brings Scripture in support of every argu- 
ment. The deepest controversialists of that scholastic 
day find here a woman, whom all their trained and 
sharpened intellects are inadequate to foil. But, by the 
excitement of the contest, her heart is made to rise 
and swell within her, and she bursts forth into elo- 
quence. She tells them of the long unquietness which 
she had endured in England, perceiving the corruption 
of the Church, and yearning for a purer and more perfect 
light, and how, in a day of solitary prayer, that hght was 
given. She claims for herself the peculiar power of dis- 



MRS. HUTCHINSON. 175 

tinguisliiug between the chosen of man, and the sealed 
of Heaven, and affirms that her gifted eye can see the 
glory round the foreheads of saints, sojourning in their 
mortal state. She declares herself commissioned to 
separate the true shepherds from the false, and de- 
nounces present and future judgments on the land, if 
she be disturbed in her celestial errand. Thus the 
accusations are proved from her own mouth. Her judges 
hesitate ; and some speak faintly in her defence ; but, 
with a few dissenting voices, sentence is pronounced, 
bidding her go out from among them, and trouble the 
land no more. 

Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents throughout the colony 
were now disarmed ; and she proceeded to Rhode Island, 
an accustomed refuge for the exiles of Massachusetts in 
all seasons of persecution. Her enemies believed that 
the anger of Heaven was following her, of which Gov- 
ernor Winthrop does not disdain to record a notable 
instance, very interesting in a scientific point of view, 
but fitter for his old and homely narrative than for 
modern repetition. In a little time, also, she lost her 
husband, who is mentioned in history only as attending 
her footsteps, and whom we may conclude to have been 
(like most husbands of celebrated women) a mere insig- 
nificant appendage of his mightier wife. She now grew 
uneasy away from the Hhode Island colonists, wliose 
liberality towards her, at an era when liberality was not 
esteemed a Christian virtue, probably arose from a com- 
parative insolicitude on religious matters, more distaste- 
ful to Mrs. Hutchinson than even the uncompromising 
narrowness of the Puritans. Her final movement was 



176 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

to lead her family within the limits of the Dutch juris- 
diction, where, having felled the trees of a virgin soil, 
she became herself the virtual head, civil and ecclesias- 
tical, of a little colony. 

Perhaps here she found the repose hitherto so vainly 
sought. Secluded from all whose faith she could not 
govern, surrounded by the dependants over whom she 
held an unlimited influence, agitated by none of the 
tumultuous billows which were left swelhng behind her, 
we may suppose that, in the stillness of Nature, her 
heart was stilled. But her impressive story was to have 
an awful close. Her last scene is as difficult to be 
described as a shipwreck, where the shrieks of the vic- 
tims die unheard, along a desolate sea, and a shapeless 
mass of agony is all that can be brought home to the 
imagination. The savage foe was on the watch for 
blood. Sixteen persons assembled at the evening prayer : 
in the deep midnight their cry rang through the forest ; 
and daylight dawned upon the lifeless clay of all but one. 
It was a circumstance not to be unnoticed by our stern 
ancestors, in considering the fate of her who had so 
troubled their religion, that an infant daughter, the sole 
survivor amid the terrible destruction of her mother's 
household, was bred in a barbarous faith, and never 
learned the way to the Christian's heaven. Yet we will 
hope that there the mother and child have met. 




Hi 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 

EW of the personages of past times (except sucli 
as have gained renown in fireside legends as well 
as in written history) are anything more than 
mere names to their successors. They seldom stand up 
in our iiii aginations like men. The knowledge communi- 
cated by the historian and biographer is analogous to that 
which we acquire of a country by the map, — minute, 
perhaps, and accurate, and available for all necessary 
purposes, but cold and naked, and wholly destitute of the 
mimic charm produced by landscape-painting. These de- 
fects are partly remediable, and even without an absolute 
violation of literal truth, although by methods rightfully 
interdicted to professors of biographical exactness. A 
license must be assumed in brightening the materials 
.which time has rusted, and in tracing out half-obliterated 
inscriptions on the columns of antiquity: Fancy must 
throw her reviving light on the faded incidents that indi- 
cate character, whence a ray will be reflected, more or 
less vividly, on the person to be described. The portrait 
of the ancient governor whose name stands at the head 
of tliis article will owe any interest it may possess, not 
to his internal self, but to certain peculiarities of his for- 
tune. These must be briefly noticed. 

8* L 



178 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

The birth and early life of Sir William Phips were 
rather an extraordinary prelude to his subsequent dis- 
tinction. He was one of the twenty-six children of a 
gunsmith, who exercised his trade — where hunting and 
war must have given it a full encouragement — in a small 
frontier settlement near the mouth of the river Kennebec. 
Within the boundaries of the Puritan provinces, and 
wherever those governments extended an effectual sway, 
no depth nor solitude of the wilderness could exclude 
youth from all the common opportunities of moral, and 
far more than common ones of religious education. Each 
settlement of the Pilgrims was a little piece of the Old 
World inserted into the New. It was like Gideon's 
fleece, unwet with dew : the desert wind that breathed 
over it left none of its wild influences there. But the 
first settlers of Maine and New Hampshire were led 
thither entirely by carnal motives : their governments 
were feeble, uncertain, sometimes nominally annexed to 
their sister colonies, and sometimes asserting a troubled 
independence. Their rulers might be deemed, in more 
than one instance, lawless adventurers, who found that 
security in the forest which they had forfeited in Europe. 
Their clergy (unlike that revered band who acquired so 
singular a fame elsewhere in New England) were too 
often destitute of the religious fervor which should have 
kept them in the track of virtue, unaided by the restraints 
of human law and the dread of worldly dishonor; and 
there are records of lamentable lapses on the part of those 
holy men, which, if we may argue the disorder of the sheep 
from the unfitness of the shepherd, tell a sad tale as to 
the morality of the eastern provinces. In this state of 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 179 

society, the future governor grew up; and many years 
after, sailing witli a fleet and an army to make war upon 
the French, he pointed out the very hills where he had 
reached the age of manhood, unskilled even to read and 
write. The contrast between the commencement and 
close of his life was the effect of casual circumstances. 
During a considerable time, he was a mariner, at a period 
when there was much license on the high-seas. After 
attaining to some rank in the EngHsh navy, he heard of 
an ancient Spanish wreck off the coast of Hispaniola, of 
such mighty value, that, according to the stories of the 
day, the sunken gold might be seen to glisten, and the 
diamonds to flash, as the triumphant billows tossed about 
their spoil. These treasures of the deep (by the aid of 
certain noblemen, who claimed the lion's share) Sir 
William Phips sought for, and recovered, and was suffi- 
ciently enriched, even after an honest settlement with the 
partners of his adventure. That the land might give him 
honor, as the sea had given him wealth, he received knight- 
hood from King James. Returning to New England, he 
professed repentance of his sins (of which, from the na- 
ture both of his early and more recent Hfe, there could 
scarce fail to be some slight accumulation), was baptized, 
and, on the accession of the Prince of Orange to the 
throne, became the first governor under the second char- 
ter. And now, having arranged these preliminaries, we 
shall attempt to picture forth a day of Sir William's life, 
introducing no very remarkable events, because history- 
supplies us with none such convertible to our purpose. 

It is the forenoon of a day in summer, shortly after the 
governor's arrival ; and he stands upon his doorsteps, 



180 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

preparatory to a walk through the metropolis. Sir Wil- 
liam is a stout man, an inch or two below the middle size, 
and rather beyond the middle point of life. His dress is 
of velvet, — a dark purple, broadly embroidered ; and his 
sword-hilt and the lion's head of his cane display speci- 
mens of the gold from the Spanish wreck. On his head, 
in the fashion of the court of Louis XIV,, is a superb 
full-bottomed periwig, amid whose heap of ringlets his 
face shows like a rough pebble in the setting that befits a 
diamond. Just emerging from the door are two foot- 
men, — one an African slave of shiniug ebony, the other 
an English bond-servant, the property of the governor 
for a term of years. As Sir WilUam comes down the 
steps, he is met by three elderly gentlemen in black, 
grave and solemn as three tombstones on a ramble from 
the burying-ground. These are ministers of the town, 
among whom we recognize Dr. Increase Mather, the late 
provincial agent at the English court, the author of the 
present governor's appointment, and the right arm of his 
administration. Here follow many bows and a deal of 
angular politeness on both sides. Sir William professes 
his anxiety to re-enter the house, and give audience to 
the reverend gentlemen : they, on the other hand, cannot 
think of interrupting his walk ; and the courteous dispute 
is concluded by a junction of the parties ; Sir William 
and Dr. Mather setting forth side by side, the two other 
clergymen forming the centre of the column, and the 
black and white footmen bringing up the rear. The 
business in hand relates to the dealings of Satan in the 
town of Salem. Upon this subject, the principal minis- 
ters of the province have been consulted ; and these three 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 181 

eminent persons are their deputies, commissioned to 
express a doubtful opinion, implying, upon tlie whole, an 
exhortation to speedy and vigorous measures against the 
accused. To such councils. Sir William, bred in the 
forest and on the ocean, and tinctured with the super- 
stition of both, is well inclined to listen. 

As the dignitaries of Church and State make their way 
beneath the overhanging houses, the lattices are thrust 
ajar, and you may discern, just in the boundaries of light 
and shade, the prim faces of the little Puritan damsels, 
eying the magnificent governor, and envious of the bolder 
curiosity of the men. Another object of almost equal 
interest now appears in the middle of the way. It is a 
man clad in a hunting-shirt and Indian stockings, and 
armed with a long gun. His feet have been wet with 
the waters of many an inland lake and stream ; and the 
leaves and twigs of the tangled wilderness are intertwined 
with his garments : on his head he wears a trophy which 
we would not venture to record without good evidence 
of the fact, — a wig made of the long and straight black 
hair of his slain savage enemies. This grim old heathen 
stands bewildered in the midst of King Street. The gov- 
ernor regards him attentively, and, recognizing a play- 
mate of his youth, accosts him with a gracious smile, 
inquires as to the prosperity of their birthplace, and the 
life or death of their ancient neighbors, and makes appro- 
priate remarks on the different stations allotted by fortune 
to two individuals born and bred beside the same wild 
river. Finally he puts into his hand, at parting, a shilling 
of the Massachusetts coinage, stamped with the figure of 
a stubbed pine-tree, mistaken by King Charles for the 



182 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

oak wliicli saved his royal life. Then all the people 
praise the humility and bountifulness of the good gov- 
ernor, who struts onward flourishing his gold-headed 
cane ; while the gentleman in the straight black wig is 
left with a pretty accurate idea of the distance between 
himself and his old companion. 

Meantime, Sir William steers his course towards the 
town dock. A gallant figure is seen approaching on the 
opposite side of the street, in a naval uniform profusely 
laced, and with a cutlass swinging by his side. This is 
Captain Short, the commander of a frigate in the service 
of the English king, now lying in the harbor. Sir Wil- 
liam bristles up at sight of him, and crosses the street 
with a lowering front, unmmdful of the hints of Dr. Ma- 
ther, who is aware of an unsettled dispute between the 
captain and the governor, relative to the authority of the 
latter over a king's ship on the provincial station. Into 
this thorny subject. Sir William plunges headlong. The 
captain makes answer with less deference than the dignity 
of the potentate requires : the affair grows hot ; and the 
clergymen endeavor to interfere in the blessed capacity 
of peacemakers. The governor lifts his cane; and the 
captain lays his hand upon his sword, but is prevented 
from drawing by the zealous exertions of Dr. Mather. 
There is a/urious stamping of feet, and a mighty uproar 
from every mouth, in the midst of which his Excellency 
inflicts several very sufficient whacks on the head of the 
unhappy Short, Having thus avenged himself by manual 
force, as befits a woodman and a mariner, he vindicates 
the insulted majesty of the governor by committing his 
antagonist to prison. This done, Sir Wilham removes 



SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 183 

Ills periwig, wipes away the sweat of the encouuter, and 
gradually composes himself, givhig vent to a few oaths, 
like the subsiding ebullitions of a pot that has boiled 
over. 

It being now near twelve o'clock, the three ministers 
are bidden to dinner at the governor's table, where the 
party is completed by a few Old Charter senators, — men 
reared at the feet of the Pilgrims, and who remember the 
days when Cromwell was a nursing-father to New Eng- 
land. Sir William presides with commendable decorum 
till grace is said, and the cloth removed. Then, as the 
grape-juice glides warm into the ventricles of his heart, it 
produces a change, like that of a running stream upon 
enchanted shapes ; and the rude man of the sea and wil- 
derness appears in the very chair where the stately gov- 
ernor sat down. He overflows with jovial tales of the 
forecastle and of his father's hut, and stares to see the 
gravity of his guests become more and more portentous 
in exact proportion as his own merriment increases. A 
noise of drum and fife fortunately breaks up the session. 

The governor and his guests go forth, like men bound 
upon some grave business, to inspect the trainbands of 
the town. A great crowd of people is collected on the 
common, composed of whole families, from the hoary 
grandsire to the child of three years. All ages and both 
sexes look with interest on the array of their defenders ; 
and here and there stand a few dark Indians in their 
blankets, dull spectators of the strength that has swept 
away their race. The soldiers wear a proud and martial 
mien, conscious that beauty will reward them with her 
approving glances ; not to mention that there are a few 



184 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

less influential motives to contribute to keep up an heroic 
spirit, such as the dread of being made to " ride the 
wooden horse " (a very disagreeable mode of equestrian 
exercise, — hard ridmg, in the strictest sense), or of 
being "laid neck and heels," in a position of more com- 
pendiousness than comfort. Sir William perceives some 
error in their tactics, and places himself with drawn 
sword at their head. After a variety of weary evolu- 
tions, evening begins to fall, like the veil of gray and 
misty years that have rolled betwixt that warlike band 
and us. They are drawn into a hollow square, the offi- 
cers in the centre ; and the governor (for John Dunton's 
authority will bear us out in this particular) leans his 
hands upon his sword-hilt, and closes the exercises of the 
day with a prayer. 




SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 




HE mighty man of Kittery has a double claim 
to remembrance. He was a famous general, 
the most prominent military character in our 
ante-Revolutionary annals ; and he may be taken as the 
representative of a class of warriors peculiar to their age 
and country, — true citizen-soldiers, who diversified a 
life of commerce or agriculture by the episode of a city 
sacked, or a battle won, and, having stamped their names 
on the page of history, went back to the routine of peace- 
ful occupation. Sir William Pepperell's letters, written 
at the most critical period of his career, and his conduct 
then and at other times, indicate a man of plain good 
sense, with a large share of quiet resolution, and but 
little of an enterprising spirit, unless aroused by external 
circumstances. The Methodistic principles, with which 
he was slightly tinctured, instead of impelling him to ex- 
travagance, assimilated themselves to his orderly habits 
of thought and action. Thus respectably endowed, we 
find him, when near the age of fifty, a merchant of 
weight in foreign and domestic trade, a provincial coun- 
sellor, and colonel of the York County militia, filling a 
large space in the eyes of his generation, but likely to 



186 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

gain no other posthumous memorial than the letters on 
his tombstone, because undistinguished from the many 
worshipful gentlemen who had lived prosperously and 
died peacefully before him. But in the year 1745, an 
expedition was projected against Louisburg, a walled 
city of the Prench in the island of Cape Breton. The 
idea of reducing this strong fortress was conceived by 
William Yaughau, a bold, energetic, and imaginative 
adventurer, and adopted by Governor Shirley, the most 
bustling, though not the wisest ruler, that ever presided 
over Massachusetts. His influence at its utmost stretch 
carried the measure by a majority of only one vote in the 
legislature : the other New England provinces consented 
to lend their assistance ; and the next point was to select 
a commander from among the gentlemen of the country, 
none of whom had the least particle of scientific soldier- 
ship, although some were experienced in the irregular 
warfare of the frontiers. In the absence of the usual 
qualifications for military rank, the choice was guided by 
other motives, and fell upon Colonel Pepperell, who, as 
a landed proprietor in three provinces, and popular with 
all classes of people, might draw the greatest number 
of recruits to his banner. When this doubtful specula- 
tion was proposed to the prudent merchant, he sought 
advice from the celebrated "Whitefield, then an itinerant 
preacher in the country, and an object of vast antipathy 
to many of the settled ministers. The response of the 
apostle of Methodism, though dark as those of the Ora- 
cle of Delphos, intimating that the blood of the slain 
would be laid to Colonel Pepperell's charge, in case of fail- 
ure, and that the envy of the living would persecute him. 



SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 187 

if victorious, decided liim to gird on liis armor. That 
the French might be taken unawares, the legislature had 
been laid under an oath of secrecy while their delibera- 
tions should continue; this precaution, however, was 
nullified by the pious perjury of a country member of 
the lower house, who, in the performance of domestic 
worship at his lodgings, broke into a fervent and invol- 
untary petition for the success of the enterprise against 
Louisburg. We of the present generation, whose hearts 
have never been heated and amalgamated by one univer- 
sal passion, and who are, perhaps, less excitable in the 
mass than our fathers, cannot easily conceive the enthu- 
siasm with which the people seized upon the project. A 
desire to prove in the eyes of England the courage of 
her provinces ; the real necessity for the destruction of 
this Dunkirk of America; the hope of private advan- 
tage ; a remnant of the old Puritan detestation of Papist 
idolatry ; a strong hereditary hatred of the French, who, 
for half a hundred years, had shed the blood of the Eng- 
lish settlers in concert with the savages ; the natural 
proneness of the New-Englanders to engage in temporary 
undertakings, even though doubtful and hazardous, — 
such were some of the motives which soon drew together 
a host, comprehending nearly all the effective force of 
the country. The officers were grave deacons, justices 
of the peace, and other similar dignitaries ; and in the 
ranks were many warm householders, sons of rich farm- 
ers, mechanics in thriving business, husbands weary of 
their wives, and bachelors disconsolate for want of them. 
The disciples of Whitefield also turned their excited 
imaginations in this direction, and increased the resem- 



188 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

blance borne by the provincial array to the motley 
assemblages of the first crusaders, A part of the pecul- 
iarities of the affair may be grouped in one picture, by 
selecting the moment of General Pepperell's embarkation. 
It is a bright and breezy day of March; and about 
twenty small white clouds are scudding seaward before 
the wind, airy forerunners of the fleet of privateers and 
transports that spread their sails to the sunshine in the 
harbor. The tide is at its height ; and the gunwale of a 
barge alternately rises above the wharf, and then sinks 
from view, as it lies rocking on the waves in readiness to 
convey the general and his suite on board the Shirley 
galley. In the background, the dark wooden dwellings 
of the town have poured forth their inhabitants ; and 
this way rolls an earnest throng, with the great man of 
the day walking in the midst. Before him struts a guard 
of honor, selected from the yeomanry of his own neighbor- 
hood, and stout young rustics in their Sunday clothes ; 
next appear six figures who demand our more minute 
attention. He in the centre is the general, a well-pro- 
portioned man with a slight hoar-frost of age just visible 
upon him; he views the fleet in which he is about to 
embark, with no stronger expression than a calm anxiety, 
as if he were sending a freight of his own merchandise to 
Europe. A scarlet British uniform, made of the best of 
broadcloth, because imported by himself, adorns his per- 
son ; and in the left pocket of a large buff waistcoat, near 
the pommel of his sword, we see the square protuberance 
of a small Bible, which certainly may benefit his pious 
soul, and, perchance, may keep a bullet from his body. 
The middle-aged gentleman at his right hand, to whom 



SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 189 

he pays sucli grave attention, in silk, gold, and velvet, 
and "with a pair of spectacles thrust above his forehead, is 
Governor Shirley. The quick motion of his small eyes in 
their puckered sockets, his grasp on one of the general's 
bright military buttons, the gesticulation of his forefinger, 
keeping time with the earnest rapidity of his words, have 
all something characteristic. His mind is calculated to 
fill up the wild conceptions of other men with its own 
minute ingenuities ; and he seeks, as it were, to climb 
up to the moon by piling pebtle-stones, one upon 
another. He is now impressing on the general's recol- 
lection the voluminous details of a plan for surprising 
Louisburg in the depth of midnight, and thus to finish 
the campaign within twelve hours after the arrival of the 
troops. On the left, forming a striking contrast with the 
unruffled deportment of Pepperell, and the fidgety vehe- 
mence of Shirley, is the martial figure of Vaughan : with 
one hand he has seized the general's arm ; and he points 
the other to the sails of the vessel fluttering in the breeze, 
while the fire of his inward enthusiasm glows through 
his dark complexion, and flashes in tips of flame from his 
eyes. Another pale and emaciated person, in neglected 
and scarcely decent attire, and distinguished by the ab- 
stracted fervor of his manner, presses through the crowd, 
and attempts to lay hold of Pepperell's skirt. He has 
spent years in wild and shadowy studies, and has 
searched the crucible of the alchemist for gold, and 
wasted the life allotted him, in a weary effort to render 
it immortal. The din of warlike preparation has broken 
in upon his solitude ; and he comes forth with a fancy of 
his half-maddened brain, — the model of a flying bridge. 



190 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

— by which the army is to be transported into the heart 
of the hostile fortress with the celerity of magic. But 
who is this, of the mild and venerable countenance 
shaded by locks of a hallowed whiteness, looking like 
Peace with its gentle thoughts in the midst of uproar 
and stern designs ? It is the minister of an inland par- 
ish, who, after much prayer aud fasting, advised by the 
elders of the church and the wife of his bosom, has taken 
his staif, and journeyed townward. The benevolent old 
man would fain solicit the general's attention to a method 
of avoiding danger from the explosion of mines, and of 
overcoming the city without bloodshed of friend or 
enemy. We start as we turn from this picture of Chris- 
tian love to the dark enthusiast close beside him, — a 
preacher of the new sect, in every wrinkled line of whose 
visage we can read the stormy passions that have chosen 
religion for their outlet. Woe to the wretch that shall 
seek mercy there ! At his back is slung an axe, where- 
with he goes to hew down the carved altars and idol- 
atrous images in the Popish churches ; and over his 
head he rears a banner, which, as the wind unfolds it, 
displays the motto given by Whitefield, — Christo Duce, 

— in letters red as blood. But the tide is now ebbing ; 
and the general makes his adieus to the governor, and 
enters the boat : it bounds swiftly over the waves, the 
holy banner fluttering in the bows : a huzza from the 
fleet comes riotously to the shore ; and the people thun- 
der back their many- voiced reply. 

When the expedition sailed, the projectors could not 
reasonably rely on assistance from the mother-country. 
At Canso, however, the fleet was strengthened by a 



SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 191 

squadron of British sliips-of-tlie-line and frigates, under 
Commodore Warren; and this circumstance undoubt- 
edly prevented a discomfiture, although the active busi- 
ness, and all the dangers of the siege, fell to the share 
of the provincials. If we had any confidence that it 
could be done with half so much pleasure to the reader 
as to ourself, we would present a whole gallery of pic- 
tures from these rich and fresh historic scenes. Never, 
certainly, since man first indulged his instinctive appe- 
tite for war, did a queerer and less manageable host sit 
down before a hostile city. The officers, drawn from 
the same class of citizens with the rank and file, had 
neither the power' to institute an awful discipline, nor 
enough of the trained soldier's spirit to attempt it. Of 
headlong valor, when occasion off'ered, there was no lack, 
nor of a readiness to encounter severe fatigue ; but, with 
few intermissions, the provincial army made the siege one 
long day of frolic and disorder. Conscious that no mili- 
tary virtues of their own deserved the prosperous result 
which followed, they insisted that Heaven had fought as 
manifestly on their side as ever on that of Israel in the 
battles of the Old Testament. We, however, if we con- 
sider the events of after-years, and confine our view to a 
period short of the Revolution, might doubt whether the 
victory was granted to our fathers as a blessing or as a 
judgment. Most of the young men who had left their 
paternal firesides, sound in constitution, and pure in 
morals, if they returned at all, returned with ruined 
health, and with minds so broken up by the mterval of 
riot, that they never after could resume the habits of 
good citizenship. A lust for military glory was also 



192 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

awakened in the country; and France and England 
gratified it with enough of slaughter ; the former seek- 
ing to recover what she had lost, the latter to complete 
the conquest which the colonists had begun. There was 
a brief season of repose, and then a fiercer contest, raging 
almost from end to end of North America. Some went 
forth, and met the red men of the wilderness ; and when 
years had rolled, and the settler came in peace where 
they had come in war, there he found their unburied 
bones among the fallen boughs and withered leaves of 
many autumns. Others were foremost in the battles of 
the Canadas, till, in the day that saw the downfall of the 
Trench dominion, they poured their blood with "Wolfe on 
the Heights of Abraham. Through all this troubled time, 
the flower of the youth were cut down by the sword, or 
died of physical diseases, or became unprofitable citizens 
by moral ones contracted in the camp and field. Dr. 
Douglass, a shrewd Scotch physician of the last century, 
who died before war had gathered in half its harvest, 
computes that many thousand blooming damsels, capa- 
ble and well inclined to serve the state as wives and 
mothers, were compelled to lead lives of barren celibacy 
by the consequences of the successful siege of Louis- 
burg. But we will not sadden ourselves with these 
doleful thoughts, when we are to witness the triumphal 
entry of the victors into the surrendered town. 

The thundering of drums, irregularly beaten, grows 
more and more distinct, and the shattered strength of 
the western wall of Louisburg stretches out before the 
eye, forty feet in height, and far overtopped by a rock- 
built citadel. In yonder breach the broken timber, frac- 



SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 193 

tured stones, and crumbling earth prove the effect of 
the provincial cannon. The drawbridge is down over 
the wide moat; the gate is open; and the general and 
British commodore are received bj the French authori- 
ties beneath the dark and lofty portal arch. Through 
the massive gloom of this deep avenue there is a vista 
of the main street, bordered by high peaked houses, in 
the fashion of old France ; the view is terminated by the 
centre square of the city, in the midst of which rises a 
stone cross ; and shaven monks, and women with their 
children, are kneeling at its foot. A confused sobbing 
and half-stifled shrieks are heard, as the tumultuous 
advance of the conquering army becomes audible to 
those within the walls. By the light which falls through 
the archway, we perceive that a few months have some- 
what changed the general's mien, giving it the freedom 
of one acquainted with peril, and accustomed to com- 
mand ; nor, amid hopes of more solid reward, does he 
appear insensible to the thought that posterity will 
remember his name among those renowned in arms. 
Sir Peter Warren, who receives with him the enemy's 
submission, is a rough and haughty English seaman, 
greedy of fame, but despising those who have won it 
for him. Pressing forward to the portal, sword in hand, 
comes a comical figure in a brown suit, and blue yarn 
stockings, with a huge frill sticking forth from his 
bosom, to which the whole man seems an ai)pendage : 
this is that famous worthy of Plymouth County, who 
went to the war with two plain shirts and a ruffled one, 
and is now about to solicit the post of governor in 
Louisburg. In close vicinity stands Vaughan, worn 

9 M 



194 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

down with toil and exposure, the effect of which has 
fallen upon him at once in the moment of accomplished 
hope. The group is filled up by several British officers, 
who fold their arms, and look with scornful merriment 
at the provincial army, as it stretches far behind in 
garments of every hue, resembling an immense strip 
of patchwork carpeting thrown down over the uneven 
ground. In the nearer ranks we may discern the variety 
of ingredients that compose the mass. Here advance 
a row of stern, unmitigable fanatics, each of whom 
clinches his teeth, and grasps his weapon with a fist of 
iron, at sight of the temples of the ancient faith, with 
the sunlight glittering on their cross-crowned spires. 
Others examine the surrounding country, and send scru- 
tinizing glances through the gateway, anxious to select 
a spot, whither the good woman and her little ones in 
the Bay Province may be advantageously transported. 
Some, who drag their diseased limbs forward in weari- 
ness and pain, have made the wretched exchange of 
health or life for what share of fleeting glory may fall 
to them among four thousand men. But these are all 
exceptions, and the exulting feelings of the general host 
combine in an expression like that of a broad laugh 
on an honest countenance. They roll onward riotously, 
flourishing their muskets above their heads, shuffling 
their heavy heels into an instinctive dance, and roaring 
out some holy verse from the New England Psalmody, 
or those harsh old warlike stanzas which tell the story 
of "Lovell's Figlit." Thus they pour along, till the 
battered town and the rabble of its conquerors, and the 
shouts, the drums, the singing, and the laughter, grow 
dim, and die away from Pancj's eye and ear. 



SIR WILLIAM PLPPEIIELL. 195 

The arDis of Great Britaiu were not crowued by a 
more brilliant acliievemeut during that unprosperous 
war; and, in adjusting the terms of a subsequent peace, 
Louisburg was an equivalent for many losses nearer 
home. The English, with very pardonable vanity, at- 
tributed the conquest chiefly to the valor of the naval 
force. On the continent of Europe, our fathers met with 
greater justice, and Voltaire has ranked this enterprise 
of the husbandmen of New England among the most 
remarkable events in the reign of Louis XV. The 
ostensible leaders did not fail of reward. Shirley, origi- 
nally a lawyer, was commissioned in the regular army, 
and rose to the supreme military command in America. 
Warren, also, received honors and professional rank, and 
arrogated to himself, without scruple, the whole crop of 
laurels gathered at Louisburg. Pepperell was placed at 
the head of a royal regiment, and, first of his country- 
men, was distinguished by the title of baronet. Vaughan 
alone, who had been soul of the deed from its adventur- 
ous conception till the triumphant close, and in every 
danger and every hardship had exhibited a rare union of 
ardor and perseverance, — Vaughan was entirely neg- 
lected, and died in London, whither he had gone to make 
known his claims. After the great era of his life, Sir 
William Pepperell did not distinguish himself either as a 
warrior or a statesman. He spent the remainder of his 
days in all the pomp of a colonial grandee, and laid down 
his aristocratic head among the humbler ashes of his 
fathers, just before the commencement of the earliest 
troubles between Endand and America. 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 




EOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN was the eldest 
of nine children of the Rev. Thomas Eessenden. 
He was born on the 22d of April, 1771, at 
Walpole, in New Hampshire, where his father, a man of 
learning and talent, was long settled in the ministry. 
On the maternal side, likewise, he was of clerical ex- 
traction; his mother, wliose piety and amiable qualities 
are remembered by her descendants, being the daughter 
of the Rev. Samuel Kendal of New Salem. The early 
education of Thomas Green was chiefly at the common 
school of his native place, under the tuition of students 
from the college at Hanover ; and such was his progress, 
that he became himself the instructor of a school in New 
Salem at the age of sixteen. He spent most of his 
youthful days, however, in bodily labor upon the farm, 
thus contributing to the support of a numerous family ; 
and the practical knowledge of agriculture which he then 
obtained was long afterwards applied to the service of 
the public. Opportunities for cultivating his mind were 
afforded him, not only in his father's library, but by the 
more miscellaneous contents of a large bookstore. He 
had passed the age of twenty-one when his inclination for 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 197 

mental pursuits determined liim to become a student at 
Dartmouth College. His father being able to give but 
little assistance, his chief resources at college consisted 
in his wages as teacher of a village school during the 
vacations. At times, also, he gave instruction to an 
evening class in psalmod}'. 

From his childhood upward, Mr. Fessenden had shown 
symptoms of that humorous turn which afterwards so 
strongly marked his writings ; but his first effort in 
verse, as he himself told me, was made during his resi- 
dence at college. Tlie themes, or exercises, of his fellow- 
students in English composition, whether prose or 
rhyme, were well characterized by the lack of native 
thought and feeling, the cold pedantry, the mimicry of 
classic models, common to all such productions. Mr. 
Fessenden had the good taste to disapprove of these 
vapid and spiritless performances, and resolved to strike 
out a new course for himself. On one occasion, when 
his classmates had gone through with their customary 
round of verbiage and threadbare sentiment, he electrified 
them and their instructor. President Wheelock, by reading 
" Jonathan's Courtship." There has never, to this day, 
been produced by any of our countrymen a more original 
and truly Yankee effusion. He had caught the rare art 
of sketching familiar manners, and of throwing into verse 
the very spirit of society as it existed around him ; and 
he had imbued each line with a peculiar yet perfectly 
natural and homely humor. This excellent ballad com- 
pels me to regret, that, instead of becoming a satirist in 
politics and science, and wasting his strength on tempo- 
rary and evanescent topics, he had not continued to be a 



198 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

rural poet. A volume of such sketches as " Jonathan's 
Courtship," describing various aspects of life among the 
yeomanry of New England, could not have failed to gain 
a permanent place in American literature. The effort in 
question met with unexampled success : it ran through 
the newspapers of the day, reappeared on the other side 
of the Atlantic, and was warmly applauded by the 
English critics ; nor has it yet lost its popularity. New 
editions may be found every year at the ballad-stalls ; 
and I saw last summer, on the veteran author's table, a 
broadside copy of his maiden poem, which he had him- 
self bought in the street. 

Mr. Eessenden passed through college with a fair repu- 
tation for scholarship, and took his degree in 1796. It 
had been his father's wish that he should imitate the 
example of some of his ancestors on both sides, by de- 
voting himself to the ministry. He, however, preferred 
the law, and commenced the study of that profession at 
Rutland, in Vermont, with Nathaniel Chipman, then the 
most eminent practitioner in the State. After his admis- 
sion to the bar, Mr. Chipman received him into partner- 
ship. But Mr. Eessenden was ill qualified to succeed in 
the profession of law, by his simplicity of character, and 
his utter inability to acquire an ordinary share of shrewd- 
ness and worldly wisdom. Moreover, the success of 
" Jonathan's Courtship," and other poetical effusions, 
had turned his thoughts from law to literature, and had 
procured him the acquaintance of several literary lumina- 
ries of those days ; none of whose names, probably, have 
survived to our own generation, save that of Joseph 
Dennie, once esteemed the finest writer in America. His 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 199 

intercourse with these people tempted Mr. Fessenden to 
spend much time in writing for newspapers and periodi- 
cals. A taste for scientific pursuits still further diverted 
him from his legal studies, and soon engaged him in an 
affair which influenced the complexion of all his after-life. 
A Mr. Langdon had brought forward a newly invented 
hydraulic machine, which was supposed to possess the 
power of raising water to a greater height than had 
hitherto been considered possible. A company of me- 
chanics and others became interested in this machine, 
and appointed Mr. Fessenden their agent for the pur- 
pose of obtaining a patent in London. He was, likewise, 
a member of the company. Mr. Fessenden was urged to 
hasten his departure, in consequence of a report that cer- 
tain persons had acquired the secret of the invention, 
and were determined to anticipate the proprietors in 
securing a patent. Scarcely time was allowed for test- 
ing the efiicacy of the machine by a few hasty experi- 
ments, which, however, appeared satisfactory. Taking 
passage immediately, Mr. Fessenden arrived in London 
on the 4th of July, 1801, and waited on Mr. King, then 
our minister, by whom he was introduced to Mr. Nicliol- 
son, a gentleman of eminent scientific reputation. After 
thoroughly examining the invention, Mr. Nicholson gave 
an opinion unfavorable to its merits ; and the question 
was soon settled by a letter from one of the Vermont 
proprietors to Mr. Fessenden, informing him that the 
apparent advantages of the machine had been found alto- 
gether deceptive. In short, Mr. Fessenden had been lured 
from his profession and country by as empty a bubble as 
that of the perpetual motion. Yet it is creditable both to 



SOO BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

his ability and energy, that, laying hold of what was really 
valuable in Langdon's contrivance, he constructed the 
model of a machine for raising water from coal-mines, and 
other great depths, by means of what he termed the 
" renovated pressure of the atmosphere." On communi- 
cating this invention to Mr. Nicholson and other eminent 
mechanicians, they acknowledged its originality and inge- 
nuity, and thought that, in some situations, it might be 
useful. But the expenses of a patent in England, the 
difficulty of obtaining patronage for such a project, and 
the uncertainty of the result, were obstacles too weighty 
to be overcome. Mr. Eessenden threw aside the scheme, 
and, after a two months' residence in London, was pre- 
paring to return home, when a new and characteristic 
adventure arrested him. 

He received a visit, at his lodging in the Strand, from 
a person whom he had never before seen, but who intro- 
duced himself to his good-will as being likewise an Ameri- 
can. His business was of a nature well calculated to ex- 
cite Mr. Pessenden's interest. He produced the model 
of an ingenious contrivance for grinding corn. A patent 
had already been obtained ; and a company, with the 
lord-mayor of London at its head, was associated for the 
construction of mills upon this new principle. The in- 
ventor, according to his own story, had disposed of one- 
fourth part of his patent for five hundred pounds, and 
was wilhng to accommodate his countryman with another 
fourth. After some inquiry into the stranger's character 
and the accuracy of his statements, Mr. Fessenden became 
a purchaser of the share that was offered him ; on what 
terms is not stated, but probably such as to involve his 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 201 

whole property in the adventure. The result was disas- 
trous. The lord-mayor soon withdrew his countenance 
from the project. It ultimately appeared that Mr. Fcs- 
senden was the only real purchaser of any part of the 
patent ; and, as the original patentee shortly afterwards 
quitted the concern, the former was left to manage the 
business as he best could. With a perseverance not 
less characteristic than his credulity, lie associated him- 
self with four partners, and undertook to superintend 
the construction of one of these patent-mills upon the 
Thames. But his associates, who were men of no re- 
spectability, thwarted his plans ; and after much toil of 
body, as well as distress of mind, he found himself utterly 
ruined, friendless and penniless, in the midst of London. 
No other event could have been anticipated, when a man 
so devoid of guile was thrown among a set of crafty ad- 
venturers. 

Being now in the situation in which many a literary 
man before him had been, he remembered the success of 
his fugitive poems, and betook himself to the pen as his 
most natural resource. A subject was offered him, in 
which no other poet would have found a theme for the 
Muse. It seemed to be his fatality to form connections 
with schemers of all sorts ; and he had become acquainted 
with Benjamin Douglas Perkins, the patentee of the 
famous metallic tractors. These implements were then 
in great vogue for tlie cure of inflammatory diseases, by 
removing the superfluous electricity. Perkinism, as tlie 
doctrine of metallic tractors was styled, had some con- 
verts among scientific men, and many among the people, 
but was violently opposed by the regular corps of phy- 
9* 



202 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

sicians and surgeons. Mr. Pessenden, as might be ex- 
pected, was a believer in the efficacy of the tractors, and, 
at the request of Perkins, consented to make them the 
subject of a poem in Hudibrastic verse, the satire of 
wliich was to be levelled against their opponents. " Ter- 
rible Tractoration " was the result. It professes to be 
a poetical petition from Dr. Christopher Caustic, a medi- 
cal gentleman who has been ruined by the success of the 
metallic tractors, and who applies to the Royal College 
of Physicians for relief and redress. The wits of the 
poor doctor have been somewhat shattered by his mis- 
fortunes; and, with crazy ingenuity, he contrives to 
heap ridicule on his medical brethren, under pretence of 
railing against Perkinism. The poem is in four cantos, 
the first of which is the best, and the most characteristic 
of the author. It is occupied with Dr. Caustic's descrip- 
tion of his mechanical and scientific contrivances, em- 
bracing all sorts of possible and impossible projects ; 
every one of which, however, has a ridiculous plausibil- 
ity. The inexhaustible variety in which they flow forth 
proves the author's invention unrivalled in its way. It 
shows what had been the nature of Mr. Pessenden's 
mental toil during his residence in London, continually 
brooding over the miracles of mechanism and science, 
his enthusiasm for which had cost him so dear. Long 
afterwards, speaking of the first conception of this poem, 
the author told me that he had shaped it out during a 
solitary day's ramble in the outskirts of London; and 
the character of Dr. Caustic so strongly impressed itself 
on his mind, that, as he walked homeward through the 
crowded streets, he burst into frequent fits of laughter. 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 



203 



The trutli is, that, in tlie sketch of this wild projector, 
Mr. Eessenden had caricatured some of his own features ; 
and, when he laughed so heartily, it was at the percep- 
tion of the resemblance. 

"Terrible Tractoration " is a work of strange and 
grotesque ideas aptly expressed: its rhymes are of a 
most singular character, yet fitting each to each as ac- 
curately as echoes. As in aU Mr. Pessenden's produc- 
tions, there is great exactness in the language; the 
author's thoughts bemg thrown off as distinctly as im- 
pressions from a type. In regard to the pleasure to be 
derived from reading this poem, there is room for diver- 
sity of taste ; but, that it is an original and remarkable 
work, no person competent to pass judgment on a liter- 
ary question will deny. It was first published early in 
the year 1803, in an octavo pamphlet of above fifty 
pages. Being highly applauded by the principal re- 
views, and eagerly purchased by the public, a new edi- 
tion appeared at the end of two months, in a volume of 
nearly two hundred pages, illustrated with engravings. 
It received the praise of Gifford, the severest of English 
critics. Its continued success encouraged the author to 
publish a volume of " Original Poems," consisting chiefly 
of his fugitive pieces from the American newspapers. 
This, also, was favorably received. He was now, what 
so few of his countrymen have ever been, a popular au- 
thor in London ; and, in the midst of his triumphs, he 
bethought himself of his native land. 

Mr. Fessenden returned to America in 1804. He 
came back poorer than he went, but with an honorable 
reputation, and with unstained integrity, although his 



204 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

evil fortune had connected him with men far unlike him- 
self. His fame had preceded him across the Atlantic. 
Shortly before his arrival, an edition of " Terrible Trac- 
toration" had been published at Philadelphia, with a 
prefatory memoir of the author, the tone of which proves 
that the American people felt themselves honored in the 
literary success of their countryman. Another edition 
appeared in New York, in 1806, considerably enlarged, 
with a new satire on the topics of the day. It is symp- 
tomatic of the course which the author had now adopted, 
that much of this new satire was directed against Dem- 
ocratic principles and the prominent upholders of them. 
This was soon followed by "Democracy Unveiled," a 
more elaborate attack on the same political party. 

In "Democracy Unveiled," our friend Dr. Caustic 
appears as a citizen of the United States, and pours out 
six cantos of vituperative verse, with copious notes of 
the same tenor, on the heads of President Jefferson and 
his supporters. Much of the satire is unpardonably 
coarse. The literary merits of the work are inferior to 
those of " Terrible Tractoration " ; but it is no less origi- 
nal and peculiar. Even where the matter is a mere ver- 
sification of newspaper slander. Dr. Caustic's manner 
gives it an individuality not to be mistaken. The book 
passed through three editions in the course of a few 
months. Its most pungent portions were copied into 
all the opposition prints; its strange, jog-trot stanzas 
were familiar to every ear; and Mr. Pessenden may 
fairly be allowed the credit of having given expression 
to the feelings of the great Federal party. 

On the 30th of August, 1806, Mr. Pessenden com- 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 205 

mciiced the publication, at New York, of " The Weekly 
Inspector," a paper at first of eight, and afterwards of 
sixteen, octavo pages. It appeared every Saturday. The 
character of this journal was mainly political ; but there 
are also a few flowers and sweet-scented twigs of litera- 
ture intermixed among the nettles and burs, which alone 
flourish in the arena of party strife. Its columns are 
profusely enriched with scraps of satirical verse in 
which Dr. Caustic, in his capacity of ballad-maker to 
the Federal faction, spared uot to celebrate every man 
or measure of government that was anywise susceptible 
of ridicule. Many of his prose articles are carefully and 
ably written, attacking not men so much as principles 
and measures ; and his deeply felt anxiety for the wel- 
fare of his country sometimes gives an impressive dignity 
to his thoughts and style. The dread of French domi- 
nation seems to have haunted him like a nightmare. 
But, in spite of the editor's satirical reputation, "The 
Weekly Inspector" was too conscientious a paper, too 
sparingly spiced with the red pepper of personal abuse, 
to succeed in those outrageous times. The publication 
continued but for a single year, at the end of which we 
find Mr. Pessenden's valedictory to his readers. Its 
tone is despondent both as to the prospects of the coun- 
try and his own private fortunes. The next token of 
his labors that has come under my notice is a small 
volume of verse, published at Philadelphia in 1809, 
and alliteratively entitled " Pills, Poetical, Political, and 
Philosophical; prescribed for the Purpose of purging 
the Public of Piddling Philosophers, Penny Poetasters, 
of Paltry Politicians, and Petty Partisans. By Peter 



206 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

Pepper-Box, Poet and Physician." This satire had been 
written during the embargo, but, not making its appear- 
ance till after the repeal of that measure, met with less 
success than " Democracy Unveiled." 

Everybody who has known Mr, Fessenden must have 
wondered how the kindest hearted man in all the world 
could have likewise been the most noted satirist of his 
day. For my part, I have tried in vain to form a con- 
ception of my venerable and peaceful friend as a champion 
in the stormy strife of party, flinging mud full in the 
faces of his foes, and shouting forth the bitter laughter 
that rang from border to border of the land ; and I can 
hardly believe, though well assured of it, that his antago- 
nists should ever have meditated personal violence against 
the gentlest of human creatures. I am sure, at least, 
that Nature never meant him for a satirist. On careful 
examination of his works, I do not find in any of them 
the ferocity of the true bloodhound of literature, — such 
as Swift, or Churchill, or Cobbett, — which fastens upon 
the throat of its victim, and would fain drink his life- 
blood. In my opinion, Mr. Pessenden never felt the 
slightest personal ill-will against the objects of his satire, 
except, indeed, they had endeavored to detract from his 
literary reputation, — an offence which he resented with 
a poet's sensibility, and seldom failed to punish. With 
such exceptions, his works are not properly satirical, but 
the offspring of a mind inexhaustibly fertile in ludicrous 
ideas, which it appended to any topic in hand. At times, 
doubtless, the all-pervading frenzy of the times inspired 
him with a bitterness not his own. But, in the least 
defensible of his writings, he was influenced by an honest 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 207 

zeal for the public good. There was nothing mercenary 
in bis connection with poUtics. To an antagonist who 
liad taunted liim with being poor, he cahnly reph.ed, that 
he "need not have been accused of the crime of poverty, 
could he have prostituted his principles to party pur- 
poses, and become the hireling assassin of the dominant 
faction." Nor can there be a doubt that the adminis- 
tration would gladly have purchased the pen of so popu- 
lar a writer. 

I have gained hardly any information of Mr. Fessen- 
den's life between the years 1807 and 1812 ; at which 
latter period, and probably some time previous, he was 
settled at the village of Bellows Falls, on Connecticut 
River, in the practice of the law. In May of that year, 
he had the good fortune to become acquainted with Miss 
Lydia Tuttle, daughter of Mr. John Tuttle, an inde- 
pendent and intelligent farmer at Littleton, Mass. She 
was then on a visit in Vermont. After her return home, 
a correspondence ensued between this lady and Mr. 
Fessenden, and was continued till their marriage, in Sep- 
tember, 1813. She was considerably younger than 
himself, but endowed with the qualities most desirable 
in the wife of such a man ; and it would not be easy to 
overestimate how much his prosperity and happiness 
were increased by this union. Mrs. Fessenden could 
appreciate what was excellent in her husband, and sup- 
ply what was deficient. In her affectionate good sense 
he found a substitute for the worldly sagacity which he 
did not possess, and could not learn. To her he in- 
trusted the pecuniary cares, always so burdensome to a 
literary man. Her influence restrained him from such 



208 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

imprudent euterprises as had caused the misfortunes of 
his earlier years. She smoothed his path of life, and 
made it pleasant to him, and lengthened it; for, as he 
once told me (I believe it was while advising me to take, 
betimes, a similar treasure to myself), he would have 
been in his grave long ago, but for her care. 

Mr. Eessenden continued to practise law at Bellows 
Falls till 1815, when he removed to Brattleborough, and 
assumed the editorship of "The Brattleborough Re- 
porter," a political newspaper. The following year, in 
compliance with a pressing invitation from the inhabit- 
ants, he returned to Bellows Falls, and edited, with 
much success, a literary and political paper, called " The 
Intelligencer." He held this employment till the year 
1822, at the same time practising law, and composing a 
volume of poetry, " The Ladies' Monitor," besides com- 
piling several works in law, the arts, and agriculture. 
During this part of his hfe, he usually spent sixteen 
hours of the twenty-four in study. In 1822 he came 
to Boston as editor of " The New England Farmer," a 
weekly journal, the first established, and devoted princi- 
pally to the diffusion of agricultural knowledge. 

His management of the Farmer met unreserved ap- 
probation. Having been bred upon a farm, and passed 
much of his later life in the country, and being thor- 
oughly conversant with the writers on rural economy, he 
was admirably qualified to conduct such a journal. It 
was extensively circulated throughout New England, and 
may be said to have fertilized the soil like rain from 
heaven. Numerous papers on the same plan sprung up 
in various parts of the country; but none attained the 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 209 

standard of tlieir prototype. Besides his editorial labors, 
Mr. Fesseiiden published, from time to time, various 
compilations on agricultural subjects, or adaptations of 
English treatises to the use of the American husbandman. 
Verse he no longer wrote, except, now and then, an ode 
or song for some agricultural festivity. His poems, 
being connected with topics of temporary interest, ceased 
to be read, now that the metallic tractors were tlirown 
aside, and that the blending and merging of parties had 
created an entire change of political aspects, shice the 
days of " Democracy Unveiled." The poetic laurel with- 
ered among his gray hairs, and dropped away, leaf by 
leaf. His name, once the most familiar, was forgotten 
in the list of American bards. I know not that tliis 
oblivion was to be regretted. Mr. Fessenden, if my 
observation of his temperament be correct, was peculiarly 
sensitive and nervous in regard to the trials of author- 
sliip : a little censure did him more harm than much 
praise could do him good ; and methinks the repose of 
total neglect was better for him than a feverish notoriety. 
Were it worth while to imagine any other course for the 
latter part of his life, which he made so useful and so 
honorable, it might be wished that he could have devoted 
himself entirely to scientific research. He had a strong 
taste for studies of that kind, and sometimes used to 
lament that his daily drudgery afforded him no leisure to 
compose a work on caloric, which subject he had thor- 
oughly investigated. 

In January, 1836, I became, and continued for a few 
months, an inmate of Mr. Eessenden's family. It was 
my first acquaintance with him. His image is before my 
O N 



210 BIOGRAPPIICAL SKETCHES. 

mind's eye at this moment ; slowly approacliing me with 
a lamp in his hand, his hair gray, his face solemn and 
pale, his tall and portly figure bent with heavier infirmity 
than befitted his years. His dress, though he had im- 
proved in this particular since middle life, was marked 
by a truly scholastic negligence. He greeted me kindly, 
and with plain, old-fashioned courtesy ; though I fancied 
that he somewhat regretted the interruption of his even- 
ing studies. After a few moments' talk, he invited me 
to accompany him to his study, and give my opiuion 
on some passages of satirical verse, which were to be 
inserted in a new edition of " Terrible Tractoration." 
Years before, I had lighted on an illustrated copy of this 
poem, bestrewn with venerable dust, in a corner of a 
college library ; and it seemed strange and whimsical 
that I should find it still in progress of composition, and 
be consulted about it by Dr. Caustic himself. While 
Mr. Fessenden read, I had leisure to glance around at 
his study, which was very cliaracteristic of the man and 
his occupations. The table, and great part of the floor, 
were covered with books and pamphlets on agricultural 
subjects, newspapers from all quarters, manuscript arti- 
cles for "The New England Farmer," and manuscript 
stanzas for " Terrible Tractoration." There was such a 
litter as always gathers around a literary man. It be- 
spoke, at once, Mr. Eessenden's amiable temper and liis 
abstracted habits, that several members of the family, old 
and young, were sitting in the room, and engaged in 
conversation, apparently without giving him the least 
disturbance. A specimen of Dr. Caustic's inventive 
genius was seen in the " Patent Steam and Hot -Water 



THOMAS GREEN EESSENDEN. 211 

Stove," "wliicli heated the apartment, and kept up a 
pleasant singing sound, hke that of a teakettle, thereby 
making the fireside more cheerful. It appears to me, 
that, having no children of flesh and blood, Mr. Tessen- 
den had contracted a fatherly fondness for this stove, as 
being hi^ mental progeny ; and it must be owned that the 
stove well deserved his affection, and repaid it with much 
warmth. 

The new edition of " Tractoration " came out not long 
afterwards. It was noticed with great kindness by the 
press, but was not warmly received by the public. Mr. 
Fessenden imputed the failure, in part, to the illiberality 
of the "trade," and avenged himself by a little poem, 
in his best style, entitled "Wooden Booksellers"; so 
that the last blow of his satirical scourge was given in 
the good old cause of authors against pubhshers. 

Notwithstanding a wide difference of age, and many 
more points of dissimilarity than of resemblance, Mr. 
Fessenden and myself soon became friends. His par- 
tiality seemed not to be the result of any nice discrimi- 
nation of my good and evil qualities (for he had no 
acuteness in that way), but to be given instinctively, 
like the affection of a child. On my part, I loved the 
old man because his heart was as transparent as a foun- 
tain; and I could see nothing in it but integrity and 
purity, and simple faith in his fellow-men, and good-will 
towards all the world. His character was so open, that 
I did not need to correct my original conception of it. 
He never seemed to me like a new acquaintance, but as 
one with whom I had been famihar from my infancy. 
Yet he was a rare man, such as few meet with in the 
course of a lifetime. 



'212 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 

It is remarkable, that, with such kindly affections, Mr. 
Tessenden was so deeply absorbed in thought and study 
as scarcely to allow himself time for domestic and social 
enjoyment. During the winter when I first knew him, 
his mental drudgery was almost continual. Besides 
"The New England Farmer," he had the editorial 
charge of two other journals, — " The Horticultural 
Register," and " The Silk Manual " ; in addition to 
which employment, he was a "member of the State legis- 
lature, and took some share in the debates. The new 
matter of " Terrible Tractoration " likewise cost him 
intense thought. Sometimes I used to meet him in the 
street, making his way onward apparently by a sort of 
instinct ; while his eyes took note of nothing, and would, 
perhaps, pass over my face without sign of recognition. 
He confessed to me that he was apt to go astray when 
intent on rhyme. With so much to abstract him from 
outward life, he could hardly be said to live in the world 
that was bustling around him. Almost the only relaxa- 
tion that he allowed himself was an occasional perform- 
ance on a bass-viol which stood in the corner of his 
study, and from which he loved to elicit some old-fash- 
ioned tune of soothing potency. At meal-times, how- 
ever, dragged down and harassed as his spirits were, 
he brightened up, and generally gladdened the whole 
table with a flash of Dr. Caustic's humor. 

Had I anticipated being Mr. Fessenden's biographer, 
I might have drawn from him many details that would 
have been well worth remembering. But he had not the 
tendency of most men iu advanced life, to be copious in 
personal reminiscences; nor did he often speak of the 



THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 213 

noted writers and politicians with wLom the chauces of 
earlier years had associated him. Indeed, lacking a turn 
for observation of character, his former companions had 
passed before him like images in a mirror, giving him 
little knowledge of their inner nature. Moreover, till 
his latest day, he was more inchned to form prospects 
for the future than to dwell upon the past. I remember 
— the last time, save one, that we ever met — I found 
him on the bed, suffering with a dizziness of the brain. 
He roused himself, however, and grew very cheerful; 
talking, with a youthful glow of fancy, about emigrating 
to Illinois, where he possessed a farm, and picturing a 
new life for both of us in that Western region. It has 
since come to my memory, that, while he spoke, there 
was a purple flush across his brow, — the harbinger of 
death. 

I saw him but once more alive. On the thirteenth 
day of November last, while on my M^ay to Boston, ex- 
pecting shortly to take him by the hand, a letter met me 
with an invitation to his funeral. He had been struck 
with apoplexy on Friday evening, three days before, and 
had lain insensible till Saturday night, when he expired. 
The burial took place at Mount Auburn on the ensuing 
Tuesday. It was a gloomy day; for the first snow- 
storm of the season had been drifting through the air 
since morning ; and the " Garden of Graves " looked the 
dreariest spot on earth. The snow came down so fast, 
that it covered the coffin in its passage from the hearse 
to the sepulchre. The few male friends who had fol- 
lowed to the cemetery descended into the tomb ; and it 
was there that I took my last glance at the features of 



214 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

a man who will liold a place in my remembrance apart 
from other men. He was like no other. In his long 
pathway through life, from his cradle to the place wliere 
we had now laid him, he had come, a man indeed in 
intellect and achievement, but, in guileless simplicity, a 
child. Dark would have been the hour, if, when we 
closed the door of the tomb upon his perishing mor- 
tality, we had believed that our friend was there. 

It is contemplated to erect a monument, by subscrip- 
tion, to Mr. !Fessenden's memory. It is right that he 
should be thus hon&red. Mount Auburn will long re- 
main a desert, barren of consecrated marbles, if worth 
like his be yielded to oblivion. Let his grave be marked 
out, that the yeomen of New England may know where 
he sleeps ; for he was their familiar friend, and has visited 
them at all their firesides. He has toiled for them at 
seed-time and harvest : he has scattered the good grain 
in every field ; and they have garnered the increase. 
Mark out his grave as that of one worthy to be remem- 
bered both in the literary and political annals of our 
country, and let the laurel be carved on his memorial 
stone ; for it will cover the ashes of a man of genius. 





JONATHAN CILLEY. 

HE subject of this brief memorial had barely 
begun to be an actor in the great scenes where 
his part could not have failed to be a prom- 
inent one. The nation did not have time to recognize 
him. His death, aside from the shock with which the 
manner of it has thrilled every bosom, is looked upon 
merely as causing a vacancy in the delegation of his 
State, which a new member may fill as creditably as the 
departed. It will, perhaps, be deemed praise enough to 
say of Cilley, that he would have proved himself an 
active and efficient partisan. But those who knew him 
longest and most intimately, conscious of his high talents 
and rare qualities, his energy of mind and force of char- 
acter, must claim much more than such a meed for their 
lost friend. They feel that not merely a party nor a sec- 
tion, but our collective country, has lost a man who had 
the heart and the ability to serve her well. It would 
be doing injustice to the hopes which lie withered upon 
his untimely grave, if, in paying a farewell tribute to 
his memory, we were to ask a narrower sympathy tban 
that of the people at large. May no bitterness of party 
prejudices influence him who writes, nor those, of what- 
e>^er political opinions, who may read ! 



216 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

Jonathan Cilley was born at Nottingham, N. H., on 
the 2d of July, 1802. His grandfather, Colonel Joseph 
Cilley, commanded a New Hampshire regiment during the 
Revolutionary War, and established a character for energy 
and intrepidity, of which more than one of his descendants 
have proved themselves the inheritors. Greenleaf Cilley, 
son of the preceding, died in 1808, leaving a family of 
four sons and three daughters. The aged mother of this 
family, and the three daughters, are still living. Of the 
sons, the only survivor is Joseph Cilley, who was an officer 
in the late war, and served with great distinction on the 
Canadian frontier. Jonathan, being desirous of a liberal 
education, commenced his studies at Atkinson Acad- 
emy, at about the age of seventeen, and became a mem- 
ber of the freshman class of Bowdoin College, Bruns- 
wick, Me., in 1821. Inheriting but little property from 
his father, he adopted the usual expedient of a young 
New-Englander in similar circumstances, and gained a 
small income by teaching a country school during the 
winter months both before and after his entrance at 
college. 

Cilley's character and standing at college afforded 
high promise of usefulness and distinction in after-life. 
Though not the foremost scholar of his class, he stood in 
the front rank, and probably derived all the real benefit 
from the prescribed course of study that it could bestow 
on so practical a mind. His true education consisted in 
the exercise of those faculties which fitted him to be a 
popular leader. His influence among his fellow-students 
was probably greater than that of any other individual ; 
and he had already made himself powerful in that limited 



JONATHAN CILLEY. 217 

sphere, by a free and natural eloquence, a flow of per- 
tinent ideas in language of unstudied appropriateness, 
which seemed always to accomplish precisely the result 
on which he had calculated. This gift was sometimes 
displayed in class meetings, wlien measures important 
to those concerned were under discussion ; sometimes in 
mock trials at law, when judge, jury, lawyers, prisoner, 
and witnesses were personated by the students, and 
Cilley played the part of a fervid and successful ad- 
vocate ; and, besides these exhibitions of power, he 
regularly trained himself in the forensic debates of a 
literary society, of which he afterwards became presi- 
dent. Nothing could be less artificial than his style 
of oratory. After filling his mind with the necessary 
information, he trusted everything else to his mental 
warmth and the inspiration of the moment, and poured 
himself out with an earnest and irresistible simplicity. 
There was a singular contrast between the flow of thought 
from his lips, and the coldness and rest)-aint with which 
he wrote ; and though, in maturer life, he acquired a 
considerable facility in exercising the pen, he always felt 
the tongue to be his peculiar instrument. 

In private intercourse, Cilley possessed a remarkable 
fascination. It was impossible not to regard him with 
the kindliest feelings, because his companions were intui- 
tively certain of a like kindliness on his part. He had 
a power of sympathy which enabled him to understand 
every character, and hold communion with human na- 
ture in all its varieties. He never shrank from the inter- 
course of man with man ; and it was to his freedom in 
this particular that he owed much of his subsequent 
\0 



218 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

popularity among a people who are accustomed to take 
a personal interest in the men whom they elevate to 
office. In few words, let us characterize him at the 
outset of life as a young man of quick and powerful in- 
tellect, endowed with sagacity and tact, yet frank and 
free in his mode of action, ambitious of good influence, 
earnest, active, and persevering, with an elasticity and 
cheerful strength of mind which made difficulties easy, 
and the struggle with them a pleasure. Mingled with 
the amiable qualities that were like sunshine to his 
friends, there were harsher and sterner traits, which 
fitted him to make head against an adverse world ; but 
it was only at the moment of need that the iron frame-_ 
work of his character became perceptible. 

Immediately on quitting college, Mr. Cilley took up 
his residence in Thomastou, and began the study of 
law in the office of John Ruggles, Esq., now a senator 
in Congress. Mr. Ruggles being then a prominent mem- 
ber of the Democratic party, it was natural that the pupil 
should lend his aid to promote the political views of his 
instructor, especially as he would thus uphold the princi- 
ples which he had cherished from boyhood. From year 
to year, the election of Mr. Ruggles to the State legis- 
lature was strongly opposed. Cilley's services in over- 
coming this opposition were too valuable to be dispensed 
with ; and thus, at a period when most young men still 
stand aloof from the world, he had already taken his post 
as a leading politician. He afterwards found cause to 
regret that so much time had been abstracted from his 
professional studies ; nor did the absorbing and exciting 
nature of his political career afford him any subsequent 



JONATHAN CILLEY. 219 

opportunity to supply the defects of his legal education. 
He was admitted an attorney-at-law in 1829, and in April 
of the same year was married to Miss Deborah Prince, 
daugliter of Hon. Hezekiah Prince of Thomaston, where 
Mr. Cilley continued to reside, and entered upon the 
practice of his profession. 

In 1831, Mr. Ruggles having been appointed a judge 
of the court of common pleas, it became necessary to 
send a new representative from Thomaston to the legis- 
lature of the State. Mr. Cilley was brought forward as 
the Democratic candidate, obtained his election, and took 
his seat in January, 1832. But in the course of this 
year the friendly relations between Judge Ruggles and 
Mr. Cilley were broken off. The former gentleman, it 
appears, had imbibed the idea that his political aspira- 
tions (which were then directed towards a seat in the 
Senate of the United States) did not receive all the aid 
-which he was disposed to claim from the influence of his 
late pupil. When, therefore, Mr. Cilley was held up as 
a candidate for re-election to the legislature, the whole 
strength of Judge Ruggles and his adherents was exerted 
against him. This was the first act and declaration of a 
political hostility, which was too warm and earnest not 
to become, in some degree, personal, and which rendered 
Mr. Cilley's subsequent career a continual struggle with 
those to whom he might naturally have looked for friend- 
ship and support. It sets his abilities and force of char- 
acter in the strongest light, to view him, at the very 
outset of public life, without the aid of powerful connec- 
tions, an isolated young man, forced into a position of 
hostility, not merely with the enemies of his party, but 



220 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

likewise with a large body of its adherents, even accused 
of treachery to its principles, yet gaining triumph after 
triumph, and making his way steadily onward. Surely 
his was a mental and moral energy which death alone 
could have laid prostrate. 

We have the testimony of those who knew Mr. Cilley 
well, that his own feelings were never so imbittered by 
those conflicts as to prevent him from interchanging the 
courtesies of society with his most violent opponents. 
While their resentments rendered his very presence in- 
tolerable to them, he could address them with as much 
ease and composure as if their mutual relations had beeu 
those of perfect harmony. There was no aff'ectation in 
this : it was the good-natured consciousness of his own 
strength that enabled him to keep his temper: it was 
the same chivalrous sentiment which impels hostile war- 
riors to shake hands in the intervals of battle. Mr. Cil- 
ley was slow to withdraw his confidence from any man 
whom he deemed a friend ; and it has been mentioned as 
almost his only weak point, that he was too apt to suffer 
himself to be betrayed before he would condescend to 
suspect. His prejudices, however, when once adopted, 
partook of the depth and strength of his character, and 
could not be readily overcome. He loved to subdue his 
foes ; but no man could use a triumph more generously 
than he. 

Let us resume our narrative. In spite of the opposi- 
tion of Judge Ruggles and his friends, combined with 
that of the Whigs, Mr. Cilley was re-elected to the legis- 
lature of 1833, and was equally successful in each of the 
succeeding years, until his election to Congress. He was 



JONATHAN CILLEY. 221 

five successive years the representative of Thomaston. 
In 1834, wlien Mr. Dunlap M'as nominated as the Demo- 
cratic candidate for governor, Mr. Cilley gave bis support 
to Governor Smith, in the belief that the substitution 
of a new candidate liad been unfairly cflFected. He con- 
sidered it a stratagem intended to promote the election 
of Judge Ruggles to the Senate of the United States. 
Early in the legislative session of the same year, the 
Ruggles party obtained a temporary triumph over Mr. 
Cilley, effected his expulsion from the Democratic cau- 
cuses, and attempted to stigmatize him as a traitor to his 
political friends. But Mr. Cilley's high and honorable 
course was erelong understood and appreciated by his 
party and the people. He told them, openly and boldly, 
that they might undertake to expel him from their cau- 
cuses ; but they could not expel him from the Demo- 
cratic party : they might stigmatize him with any appel- 
lation they might choose ; but they could not reach the 
height on which he stood, nor shake his position with 
the people. But a few weeks had elapsed, and Mr. Cil- 
ley was the acknowledged head and leader of that party 
in the legislature. During the same session, Mr. Speaker 
Clifford (one of the friends of Judge Buggies) being 
appointed attorney-general, the Ruggles party were de- 
sirous of securing the election of another of their ad- 
herents to the chair; but, as it was obvious that Mr. 
Cilley's popularity would gain him the place, the incum- 
bent was induced to delay his resignation till the end of 
the term. At the session of 1835, Messrs. Cilley, Davee, 
and McCrote being candidates for the chair, Mr. Cilley 
withdrew in favor of Mr. Davee. That gentleman was 



9M^. 



BIOGUAPHICAL SKETCHES. 



accordingly elected; but, being soon afterwards ap- 
pointed sheriff of Somerset County, Mr. Cilley succeeded 
liim as speaker, and filled the same office during the ses< 
sion of 1836. All parties awarded him the praise of 
being the best presiding officer that the house ever 
had. 

In 1836, he was nominated by a large portion of the 
Democratic electors of the Lincoln Congressional Dis- 
trict as their candidate for Congress. That district has 
recently shown itself to possess a decided Whig ma- 
jority; and this would have been equally the case in 
1836, had any other man than Mr. Cilley appeared on 
the Democratic side. He had likewise to contend, as in 
all the former scenes of his poKtical life, with that por- 
tion of liis own party which adhered to Mr. Huggles. 
There was still another formidable obstacle, in the high 
character of Judge Bailey, who then represented the 
district, and was a candidate for re-election. All these 
difficulties, however, served only to protract the contest, 
but could not snatch the victory from Mr. Cilley, who 
obtained a majority of votes at the third trial. It was a 
fatal triumph. 

In the summer of 1837, a few months after his elec- 
tion to' Congress, I met Mr. Cilley for the first time 
since early youth, when he had been to me almost as 
an elder brother. The two or three days which I spent- 
in his neighborhood enabled us to renew our former 
intimacy. In his person there was very little change, 
and that little was for the better. He had an impend- 
ing brow, deep-set eyes, and a thin and thoughtful 
countenance, which, in his abstracted moments, seemed 



JONATHAN CILLEY. 223 

almost stem ; but, in tlie intercourse of society, it was 
brightened with a khidly smile, that will live in the 
recollection of all who knew him. His manners had not 
a fastidious polish, but were characterized by the sim- 
plicity of one who had dwelt remote from cities, holding 
free companionship with the yeomen of the land. I 
thought him as true a representative of the people as 
ever theory could portray. His earlier and later habits 
of life, his feelings, partialities, and prejudices, were 
those of the people : the strong and shrewd sense which 
constituted so marked a feature of his mind was but a 
higher degree of the popular intellect. He loved the 
people and respected them, and was prouder of nothing 
than of his brotherhood with those who had intrusted 
their public interests to his care. His continual strug- 
gles in the political arena had strengthened his bones 
and sinews: opposition had kept him ardent; while 
success had cherished the generous warmth of his na- 
ture, and assisted the growth both of his powers and 
sympathies. Disappointment might have soured and 
contracted him ; but it appeared to me that his trium- 
phant warfare had been no less beneficial to his heart 
than to his mind. I was aware, indeed, that his harsher 
traits had grown apace with his milder ones; that he 
possessed iron resolution, indomitable perseverance, and 
an almost terrible energy; but these features had im- 
parted no hardness to his character in private inter- 
course. In the hour of public need, these strong quali- 
ties would have shown themselves the most prominent 
ones, and would have encouraged his countrymen to 
rally round him as one of their natural leaders. 



224 BIOGUAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

Ill Lis private and domestic relations, Mr. Cilley was 
most exemplary; and he enjoyed no less happiness than 
he conferred. He had been the father of four children, 
two of whom were in the grave, leaving, I thought, a 
more abiding impression of tenderness and regret than 
the death of infants usually makes on the masculine 
mind. Two boys — the elder, seven or eight years of 
age ; and the younger, two — still remained to him ; and 
the fondness of these children for their father, their evi- 
dent enjoyment of his society, was proof enough of his 
gentle and amiable character within the precincts of his 
family. In that bereaved household, there is now an- 
other child, whom the father never saw. Mr. Cilley's 
domestic habits were simple and primitive to a degree 
unusual, in most parts of our country, among men of 
so eminent a station as he had attained. It made me 
smile, though with anything bat scorn, in contrast to the 
aristocratic stateliness which I Itive witnessed elsewhere, 
to see him driving home his own cow after a long search 
for her through the village. That trait alone would 
have marked him as a man whose greatness lay within 
himself. He appeared to take much interest in the cul- 
tivation of his garden, and was very fond of flowers. He 
kept bees, and told me that he loved to sit for whole 
hours by the hives, watching the labors of the insects, 
and soothed by the hum with which they fdled the air. 
I glance at these minute particulars of his daily life, 
because they form so strange a contrast with the cir- 
cumstances of his death. Who could have believed, 
that, with his thoroughly New England character, in so 
short a time after I had seen him in that peaceful and 



JONATHAN CILLEY. 225 

happy home, among those simple occupations and pure 
enjoyments, he would be stretched in his own blood, — 
slain for an almost impalpable punctilio ! 

It is not my purpose to dwell upon Mr. Cilley's brief 
career in Congress. Brief as it was, his character and 
talents had more than begun to be felt, and would soon 
have linked his name with the history of every important 
measure, and have borne it onward with the progress of 
the principles which he supported. He was not eager 
to seize opportunities of thrusting himself into notice; 
but, wheu time and the occasion summoned him, he 
came forward, and poured forth his ready and natural 
eloquence with as much effect in the councils of the 
nation as he had done in those of his own State. With 
every effort that he made, the hopes of his party rested 
more decidedly upon him, as one who would hereafter 
be found in the vanguard of many a Democratic victory. 
Let me spare myself the details of the awful catastrophe 
by which all those proud hopes perished; for I write 
with a blunted pen and a head benumbed, and am the 
less able to express my feelings as they lie deep at heart, 
and inexhaustible. 

On the 23d of February last, Mr. Cilley received a 
challenge from Mr. Graves of Kentucky, through the 
hands of Mr. Wise of Virginia. This measure, as is 
declared in the challenge itself, was grounded on Mr. 
Cilley's refusal to receive a message, of which Mr. 
Graves li.ad been the bearer, from a person of disputed 
respectability; although no exception to that person's 
character had been expressed by Mr. Cilley; nor need 
such inference have been drawn, unless Mr. Graves were 
10* o 



^26 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

conscious that public opinion held his friend in a doubt- 
ful light. The challenge was accepted, and the parties 
met on the following day. They exchanged two shots 
with rifles. After each shot, a conference was held be- 
tween the friends of both parties, and the most generous 
avowals of respect and kindly feeling were made on the 
part of Cilley towards his antagonist, but without avail. 
A third shot was exchanged; and Mr. Cilley fell dead 
into the arms of one of his friends. While I write, a 
Committee of Investigation is sitting upon this affair: 
but the public has not waited for its award; and the, 
writer, in accordance with the public, has formed his 
opinion on the official statement of Messrs. Wise and 
Jones. A challenge was never given on a more shad- 
owy pretext ; a duel was never pressed to a fatal close 
in the face of such open kindness as was expressed by 
Mr. Cilley: and the conclusion is inevitable, that Mr. 
Graves and his principal second, Mr. Wise, have gone 
further than their own dreadful code will warrant them, 
and overstepped the imaginary distinction, which, on 
their own principles, separates manslaughter from mur- 
der. 

Alas tliat over the grave of a dear friend, my sorrow 
for the bereavement must be mingled with another grief, 
— that he threw away such a life in so miserable a cause ! 
Why, as he was true to the Northern character in all 
things else, did he swerve from his Northern principles 
in this final scene ? But his error was a generous one, 
since he fought for what he deemed the honor of New 
England ; and, now that death has paid the forfeit, the 
most rigid may forgive him. If that dark pitfall — that 



SKETCH OF JONATHAN CILLEY. 227 

bloody grave — had not lain in the midst of his path, 
whither, whither might it not have led him! It has 
ended there : yet so strong was my conception of his 
energies., so like destiny did it appear that he should 
achieve everything at which he aimed, that even now 
my fancy will not dwell upon his grave, but pictures 
him still ainid the struggles and triumphs of the present 
and the future.* 

1838. 

* A very subtile and searching description of Cilley's mental 
and moral qualities is given in Hawthorne's American Note- 
Books, Vol. I. p. 71. 




JUN 23 1904 



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